Museum, market and a missing C: My visit to Art Cairo 2025

Mada

19-03-2025

I had barely stepped into Art Cairo 2025 (February 8-11, 2025) when the first work struck me: 'This is an early Inji Efflatoun!' It felt like running into a long-lost friend, though I had never seen the painting in real life before. The 1941 piece was unmistakably from her dark surrealist period — the kind of work that has resurfaced in recent years with the renewed interest in Egyptian surrealism. Beneath it was another painting from her prison years (1959-1963). While I could date both, the labels did not bother to provide that historical context.
I turned around, and there, to my left, was a large-scale painting by Tahia Halim (1919-2003). Another corner, and suddenly, an iconic Zeinab Abdel Hamid drawing — a study for her famous aerial view of a teeming street. My eyes did a full sweep of the booth: Naima Shishini (1929-2018), Gazbia Sirry (1925-2021), Marguerite Nakhla (1908-1977), Amy Nimr (1898-1974), Menhat Helmy (1925-2004) — a roll call of Egyptian women artists.
My eyes glazed over, and I started taking photos of each work — panicked art historian behavior. Who knows when these works will next appear, and where?
Then, a wave of terror. Who owned these works? And why were they on sale?
Before I could spiral into full-blown panic, the booth attendant intervened: 'No, no, we're not a gallery. We're the museum.'
'The museum?' I blinked.
'Yes, the Museum of Modern Egyptian Art.'
'At the Opera House?'
'Yes.'
It took a moment to recalibrate. The museum dates back to 1928, when the Société des Amis de l'Art, chaired by Mahmoud Khalil, organized its first landmark exhibition, L'Exposition d'Art Français au Caire: 1827–1927, which became the museum's foundation. Over the years, the museum has been relocated several times: it was demolished in 1962, where the Steigenberger now overlooks Tahrir, and its collection was stored in Dokki for decades before reopening at the Opera House in 1991. While it is now open to the public, it had been closed for a couple of years, for another round of renovations, which were, predictably, subpar. Ironically, the museum's display at the fair was far better than its actual premises.
The Museum of Modern Egyptian Art had been given a booth, side by side with commercial galleries (25, to be precise), at a fair where art was being sold — an odd, albeit novel arrangement. But why?
'Because people don't know the museum,' the representative attending the booth explained.
I looked around for a brochure, a book, something to frame this as a pedagogical effort rather than a peculiar sales pitch. Nothing. Just paintings.
This is the sixth edition of Art Cairo, held this year at the Grand Egyptian Museum. The fair is the realization of the vision of Mohamed Younis, management consultant and founder of Azad Gallery in Zamalek (established two years prior to the fair), who saw an opportunity in 2019 to create an international art fair in Egypt. Open to the public, with VIPs comped and visitors paying LE350 per ticket, the fair sprawls across three halls.
The museum booth was the first — pleasant — surprise, followed by three others that stood out: one dedicated entirely to Egyptian artist Samir Rafei (1926–2004); another run by a Lebanese gallery showing a small selection of Egyptian work, including two exquisite watercolors by Samuel Henry, who converted to Islam in 1961 and became Adam Henein (1929–2020). The works have a bit of a shrouded history. I learned informally through conversations that they were drafts for a commission of icons (which was later retracted) for the Coptic Church of the Virgin Mary on Marashli Street, designed by Ramses Wissa Wassef. Titled Samuel and Jesus, the works are delicate, ethereal icon-like studies of figures in soft washes of color, with precise feature details — reminiscent of the finely rendered hands in frescoes from Akhenaten's era.
Did I want to buy them? A portion of the sales would support young Lebanese artists.
The third booth presented itself as part of a new initiative by collector Rasheed Kamel, titled Through a Collector's Eye, which will rotate works from private collections at Le Lab, a contemporary and collectible design gallery, as well as in future editions of the fair, showcasing an array of works 'from the SWANA region.' The works on show included two pieces by Effat Naghi (1905-1994) and Hamed Abdalla (1917-1985). With trepidation, I reflect on the corpus of Egyptian modernism, often wondering about the swift shifts in provenance, the continuous absence and disappearance of its works from public collections. In this sense, I share the sentiment of concern and 'cultural obligation,' the term used to describe the mission driving Kamel's initiative.
By this point, my initial excitement was beginning to settle. The displays — not all, but most — were roughly mounted. Paintings were hung slightly off-kilter, lighting was haphazardly angled, casting stressful reflections on the works. And my personal pet peeve? Badly transferred vinyl lettering. If you insist on a dramatic label, 'Egyptian Surrealism Icon' (Rafei), at least make sure it's straight.
Still, for those works alone, the fair was worth visiting.
Beyond these highlights, the fair unfolded with galleries from Cairo, as well as Ramallah, Jordan, Damascus, Dubai and others hailing from Europe. Some were familiar, but most were not. Many galleries — Egyptian especially — leaned into an effort to showcase 1990s-born artists, though, regrettably, none stood out. Much of the work felt overdesigned, packaged for sale. A genre that appears is necessary, because it weans neophyte collectors into buying at a lower price point, but much of it I simply classify as counterfeitish modern art. Booth attendants hovered, price lists at the ready, before you could even make eye contact with a painting. It felt like a date coming on too strong.
Familiar motifs abounded — plenty of ancient Egyptian references, inevitable homages to Egypt's cultural icons (Umm Kulthoum, naturally, again and again). Some works verged on the derivative, conveniently reminiscent of artists like Helmy El-Touni, friendly attempts but paling in comparison to a few of the original works also on show (returning to the first booth). Curiously, there was an abundance of sarcophagus-themed works.
Then there were the tiny but very unfortunate mishaps, like the only Syrian gallery accidentally omitting the letter 'C' from Damascus on its signage.
I am not its audience, but the language used is steroidal — glitzy AI-esque. What is 'an unrivaled chorus of history' and an 'experience that melds venerable wisdom with dynamic energy'? The fair, as self-proclaimed, definitely leans into 'a sensational fusion of history and contemporary art.' Then there's even more overkill fodder, like the fair being dedicated to hashtag peace-to-all-nations, olive trees, border transcendence, vague solace and connection — are they trying to allude to Palestine without mentioning it?
There is an accompanying program — not very exciting to me — though I commend the effort of streaming the talks live on Instagram. I tuned into one while stuck in traffic once.
The atmosphere? A steady crowd drifting through to soft electronic music for lounging. Young couples with strollers, a new class of collectors, moneyed. The energy was carefully curated, even if the fair itself felt like it was still finding its footing — awkward and ambitious.
Oh and, tucked away where everyone is absolutely going to miss it, there is a series of ten paintings by young teens — some of the most authentic flickers of work — odd, quirky. A cross in a house, surrounded by black and blue flying fish. An awkward apologetically smiling earth-like head of a bureaucrat holding an ankh like a microphone. A parachute lifting off with a parcel. The works, created through a community art workshop, were planned in collaboration with Alwan wa Awtar, a Moqattam-based NGO that has spent the last 20 years using art as a critical tool to break the poverty cycle for underprivileged youth. Subtle and unexpected, they were a weird reality-check.