According to the Demos-PwC Good Growth for Cities Index 2025, Bradford is designated as the second-worst city to live in in the UK. The dubious distinction of the first being given to Walsall. One wonders if that study was done before Bradford was nominated this year’s City of Culture and became host to the Turner Prize in the splendid Victorian Cartwright Hall Gallery. After all, the whole point of the Turner Prize going ‘regional’ – Gateshead in 2011, Derry-Londonderry in 2013, Margate in 2019 and Liverpool in 2002 – to name but a few of the chosen cities, has been the belief that art brings about both regeneration to a rundown urban space and a broader public engagement with contemporary visual art practice. But does it? Are the artists selected likely to appeal to those outside the self-selecting bubble of curators, gallerists and art school alumni that will go along to see it? There’s no doubt that in the early days of the prize, the short-list was the focus of a great deal of bruhaha and conflict, and that those who won (mostly) went on to dizzying commercial heights. It’s notoriety even provoked the Stuckist demonstration in 2000 from a group of artists who wanted to ridicule both the award and the Tate, to point out that the prize was named after one of the country’s most illustrious painters, but that there was very little painting included. Other media, such as video and installation, reigned supreme.
Established in 1984 by a group called the Patrons of New Art under the then-Director of the Tate, Alan Bowness, the aim was to stimulate interest in contemporary art. From 1991 to 2017, the prize was awarded only to artists under the age of 50. Those nominated were selected on the basis of work shown the previous year. Winners ranged from the likes of Chris Ofilli, Anish Kapoor and, of course, Damien Hirst. But the question on the lips of the average Daily Mail reader’s tongue was usually ‘Is this art?’ So, does the prize still have any significance or even teeth? Does anyone notice now or care? The composition of the panel is made up of freelance curators, gallery and festival directors. It seems, with all its avoidance of ‘political correctness’, to be chosen for the boxes it ticks rather than its aesthetic punch. There are no equivalents to Matisse or Morandi. Even Duchamp or Manzoni’s shit-tins, let alone Tracey’s bed. So, is this a prize now about ‘inclusivity’ – in which case the inclusion of a neuro-diverse artist and those of mixed ethnicities makes sense – or is it about the very best that the British art scene can presently throw up? To be honest, it doesn’t seem to really know. None of it is that exciting, and I wonder how long the work will linger in the imagination.
There are four contenders. All worthy, all with some degree of merit, but nothing that sets the belly on fire. I longed to be surprised, to be moved, to be taken to places aesthetically that I haven’t ventured before. But no, it’s all rather predictable.
Perhaps the most interesting work is that of Nena Kalu. There’s a similarity (even if unknowingly) with the late Phyllida Barlow, but it does seem the most felt, lived and vivacious work in the show. Nnena Kalu is ‘learning-disabled with limited verbal communication’ and has been working with Action Space, which has helped facilitate her practice, since 1999. The work is bold, colourful and anarchic. Loops and tubes form the armatures around which she wraps, folds, and knots streams of repurposed fabric, cling film, coloured masking tape, rope, and even VHS tapes. Watching the video of her work, there’s a joy in her process and making, a refreshing lack of self-consciousness. The visual cacophony of shiny, bright metallic ribbons, pink net, and turquoise velvet offcuts expresses a playful innocence and delight in form, space, and material. Alongside these hanging pieces are a series of large-scale drawings: spirals, whirlpools, and obsessive vortices with no apparent beginning, middle, or end. There’s a strong sense that the work starts with her body, that it’s not cerebral but born out of lived experience and provides her with an alternative and (completely valid) form of personal language.
Zadie Xa’s work goes for the full sensory package. You have to take your shoes off to enter her space. There, the brass coloured metallic floors mirror the other work in the centre of the gallery and the paintings around the walls, so you can’t tell whether you are on the inside or outside, looking at the sky or under the sea. It’s like entering a temple. Drawing from her native Korean mythology, we enter a swirling, colourful, unstable world. Shamanic bells used to attract or repel spirits from the outline of a shell entitled Ghost. Around the edge of the space, four more conch shells act like mouths, projecting a soundscape inspired by nature, confessions and the music of Salpuri – a traditional Korean dance of exorcism. It’s like a far eastern Delphic oracle or taking part in a Timothy Leary acid trip. It pulls the viewer/participant in with its alternative, disorienting realities. Everything is fluid, reflecting her interest in marine life.
The work of Rene Matić is the most culturally engaged, asking questions about identity, society, love, and belonging. Her interest in flags and the meanings we place on them (highly pertinent with their current proliferation spawned by protests against immigration) has led her to make two big white flags that are centrally emblazoned with the words’ no place’ and ‘for violence.’, which reference American political voices that in the wake of Donald Trump’s attempted ‘assassination’ proclaim that there is no place for violence in democracy. A series of photographs and a sound installation bring together the fractured realities of contemporary life around ideas of protest and alternative relationships. Watching her in the gallery video talking about her work, she comes across as highly engaging while walking around the rundown, semi-urban, semi-suburban area where she grew up. But whether the whole adds up to more than a sociological commentary is a moot point.
Mohammed Sami’s work is the most intellectual, bringing together the paintings he created after being invited to exhibit new work in Blenheim Palace, built in the 18th century to commemorate the military triumphs of the first Duke of Marlborough. The large paintings lack a straightforward narrative, using titles and visual metaphors to suggest possible readings. We are told that they create a ‘tension between history, memory and individual interpretation.’ Still, there’s just too much going on here (or not enough), and they are too allusive to pack any real emotional punch. I’m not sure if there weren’t screeds of explanatory text, if the viewer would pick up much of what the artist intends.
None of the work here is bad. It’s all competent and, no doubt, strongly felt by the artists, but nothing grabs you by the jugular and says, ‘Look at the world anew.’ Nothing makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up or sends a frisson down the spine or lingers in the memory, and that, surely, in the end, is what we want the best art to do. Maybe, after 41 years, the Turner Prize has finally passed its sell-by date, and it’s time to put it out to grass.
Words/Top Photo: Sue Hubbard All other photos David Levene 2025
Turner Prize 2025: Cartwright Hall Art Gallery Bradford City of Culture 2025 Until 22 February 2026
Sue Hubbard is an award-winning poet, novelist and freelance art critic. Her latest novel, Flatlands, from Puskin and Mercure de France, was on the Sunday Times best historical fiction list. Her latest poetry collection is Swimming to Albania from Salmon Poetry.