‘How I found purpose at this year’s Art Dubai’

Over lunch, I made a quiet decision — to be present, to try living as if I was in a movie. I’d been reading Robin Sharma earlier that morning; he said, “Find your purpose.”

So off I went to Art Dubai, a press lanyard around my neck, why I was there was yet to unfold.

Just near the entrance, a painting caught my eye: a swan, regal and calm, with a wild bouquet of flowers blooming from its back. I laughed. Actually laughed. It disarmed me completely — I smiled like the Cheshire Cat, caught off guard by its strange familiarity. The piece — by Jordy Kerwick — was surreal, mythic, and quietly magnetic. I live in Bali, where people are friendly, so I asked the man nearby, “What is this?”

For a moment, I was anyone. I was an artist. A traveller. A woman in love with colour and oddities. I looked down at the word “Press” on my lanyard and decided — maybe I’d write something after all.

Curious to learn more, I followed the man who had answered me — though I didn’t ask his name for far too long. He introduced me to a quieter, more contemplative piece at the back of the booth — The Tree (2008) by Ibrahim El-Salahi. The man was Toby Clarke, co-founder of Vigo Gallery. At first glance, I was unmoved. I’m drawn to glitter, guts, surrealism — and this piece felt too still, too neat. But as Toby spoke, I learned it was inspired by the Haraz tree, an acacia that grows by the Nile and blooms not in the wet season, but the dry. It grows when nothing else does. It thrives under pressure. And then, it became clear.

In front of The Tree, I was reminded of the bison — the only animal that runs into the storm rather than away from it. That painting held the same energy. Not loud, but resolute. Not decorative, but declarative. And isn’t that what it means to be an artist?

To root yourself in a place where nothing should grow and still — to bloom. In that moment, the swan, the tree, and the bison each stood as symbols — of freedom, resilience, instinct. Separate in form but connected in spirit. 

When I asked Toby what the common thread was between these paintings, he humbly responded, “me.”

The rest of Vigo’s curation echoed that same understated strength. Henrik Godsk’s stylised portraits, drawn from Danish fairground traditions, felt both ancient and futuristic — like folk tales pressed into paint. Johnny Abrahams’ monochrome patterns offered minimalist rhythm, where structure became serenity. And again, Kerwick’s swan — part warrior, part nursery rhyme — bookended the experience with its quiet, haunting joy. 

What struck me most was how deeply this work resonated here in Dubai, a city I’ve come to know for its ambition, its aesthetics, and its evolving relationship with creativity. But in this booth, with its ritual-like reverence and transcontinental storytelling, I felt something quieter. Something human.

It’s hard to explain, but something shifted. I’ve been to art fairs around the world, including in Dubai before, but this moment felt unusually intimate. There was something about the way the stories unfolded not just through the artworks, but through the conversations, the slowness, the willingness to connect. It reminded me that transcendence doesn’t always announce itself with grandeur. Sometimes, it’s in the quietest corners of a tree, a swan, a memory held in someone else’s voice. That was the real shift: not the setting, but the surprise of being disarmed by something so inward in a place usually celebrated for its outward shine.

Dubai and London. Soul and structure. Migration and memory. A strange, perfect symbiosis. As the fair buzzed and conversations flickered around me, I stood still — moved by art I nearly overlooked, in a city I once thought too slick to feel sacred — and realised:

Even in the dry season.

Even in the storm.

You can bloom.