Let me start by painting a scene: imagine walking through a gallery where the air feels charged with the weight of a future that’s both terrifying and beautiful. That’s the vibe of the Barbican’s latest exhibition, In Other Worlds, a sprawling, immersive experience that tries to grapple with the paradox of humanity’s survival—our collective retreat into hyper-dense cities while the rest of the planet reclaims itself through rewilding. It’s a concept that feels ripped from the pages of Philip K. Dick or the gritty visuals of Blade Runner, but with a twist: the exhibition isn’t just about dystopia; it’s about the eerie possibility that we might be the ones who engineered this future. Personally, I think that’s what makes it so haunting. We’re not just observers here; we’re the architects of this scenario, and the question is, do we even realize it?
The exhibition’s design is a masterclass in atmosphere over substance. The Curve gallery and car park are transformed into a labyrinth of slow-motion video loops, abstract sculptures, and fragmented narratives. But here’s the thing: the slow videos are intentionally grating. They’re not just a technical choice—they’re a narrative device. Watching a drone slowly pan across a computer-generated forest for minutes on end forces you to confront the absurdity of the premise. What many people don’t realize is that this slowness mirrors the pace at which we’re actually moving toward climate collapse. We’re told we need to act fast, but the exhibition’s pacing suggests that time is already slipping away. It’s a cruel irony, really. The art critiques our inaction, but the medium itself becomes a metaphor for that inaction.
Now, let’s talk about the sculptures. The freestanding piles of buildings and the walkthrough forest are the only parts that feel like real art. The forest, in particular, is a visceral reminder of what we stand to lose. But here’s where the exhibition stumbles: it’s too preoccupied with bleakness. The car park section, meant to be a call to action, instead doubles down on despair. It highlights solar, wind, and nuclear energy but frames them as insufficient, ignoring the fact that we’re already making strides toward net-zero. What this really suggests is that the curators are more interested in provoking discomfort than offering solutions. And honestly? That’s a missed opportunity. Art should challenge us, yes, but it should also leave us with a flicker of hope. If you take a step back and think about it, the absence of optimism here feels like a disservice to the very people who need to be inspired to act.
The list of contributors is as sprawling as the exhibition itself, which is both a strength and a weakness. On one hand, the collaborative nature gives the show a sense of collective responsibility—a fitting theme for a topic as vast as climate change. On the other, it dilutes the message. With so many voices, the narrative becomes muddled. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the exhibition leans into ambiguity. There’s no clear villain, no single solution. It’s almost as if the curators are saying, ‘We don’t know either.’ And that’s both honest and unsettling. In my opinion, this ambiguity is the exhibition’s greatest asset. It forces visitors to fill in the blanks, to project their own fears and hopes onto the work. But it also risks leaving them adrift, without a compass.
So, what does this all mean for the future of art and activism? I think In Other Worlds is a case study in the power—and the peril—of speculative storytelling. It’s a reminder that our visions of the future shape our actions in the present. The exhibition’s lack of hope, however, raises a deeper question: Are we ready to face the truth of our trajectory without being paralyzed by it? Or do we need more art that dares to imagine a different path? One thing is certain: the Barbican has created an experience that lingers long after you leave. Whether it’s a wake-up call or a warning depends on how you choose to interpret the silence between the slow-moving videos.
