One nation and two contrasting cities whose differences tell the story of Uzbekistan’s DNA. This is what’s entailed by visiting Bukhara and Tashkent, from the golden age of the Mongol and Persian empires to the days of the Soviet regime.

Let’s begin with Bukhara, a city on the famous Silk Road, steeped in over 2,000 years of history. Its madrasas, mosques, turquoise tiles and domes, dating as far back as the 9th century, make it one of the best-preserved medieval cities in Central Asia. Its original urban fabric has been so well maintained that it has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1993. The ancient Persian city served as a major center of Islamic culture for centuries, as evidenced by Lyabi Hauz (meaning “by the pond”), one of its central squares that was once bustling with commercial and religious activity. Shaped like an irregular polygon, it houses the Nadir Divan Begi Madrasa, a complex of low towers, arches, mosaics, and interwoven ornamentation that evokes a sense of stepping back in time. The khanaka (a place of relaxation and reflection for Sufis) near this complex is also named after the vizier Nadir Divan Begi.

Walking west, the distinctive 16th-century domes of Toki Sarrafon shelter one of the city’s must-see bazaars, surrounded by alleyways lined with restaurants, shops, and stalls. You must walk through it to reach the Khoja Kalon Mosque with its splendid minaret and the Khodzha Govkushon Madrasa, whose name alludes to the slaughter of bulls, as the site was a slaughterhouse almost until the 16th century when it was transformed into a madrasa. Equally impressive is Arq, the walled fortress that, in addition to its generous dimensions, is notable for its curved shape, so different from the linear design of the European standard. A few meters away, the Bolo-Hauz Mosque is equally memorable, as its name suggests, translating to “children’s pond,” with its colorful exterior courtyard containing 20 carved wooden columns. The Mausoleum of Ismail Samani, made of baked brick and equally beautiful, is located in a peaceful park just behind this religious monument, and houses the tomb of the founder of the Samanid dynasty.

Bukhara is beautifully illuminated at night, and one of the areas that benefits most from this is Po-i-Kalyan, the city’s most famous landmark and a must-see on any trip, with its spectacular madrasa and equally impressive mosque and minaret. Another domed covered market, Toqi Zargaron, is located nearby. A little further from the center, though a perfectly manageable distance, is the Chor Minor monument, whose splendid and distinctive four minarets represent the four cardinal directions. Built in the 19th century by order of a wealthy Turkmen carpet and horse trader, Caliph Niyazkul Bey, it is one of the city’s most unique sights.

The most striking aspect of all these buildings is that many of them become the venue for the Bukhara Biennial, a major arts event that, every two years, brings the most relevant contemporary artists to this location. The premise is very strict: every element of modernity must be perfectly integrated with local tradition so that the event is neither intrusive nor exclusionary for the local population. Renowned artists such as Subodh Gupta, Antony Gormley, Marina Perez Simão, and Louis Barthélemy have already exhibited their work here. The artists must conceive their works not only with the historical setting in mind but also create them in collaboration with local artisans. Fortunately for these artists, the city is rich in crafts: ceramics, tiles, puppets, textiles, pottery… The 2027 edition will run from September to November, a great time to visit the city because, in addition to the pleasant temperatures that this time of year guarantees visitors, the exciting art event fills the streets day and night with locals and foreigners, yet doesn’t prevent one from getting a sense of what the city is like under normal circumstances.

A unique architectural hybrid

In Tashkent, the country’s capital, the Rakhimovs — ceramic craftspeople who have maintained their family and artistic heritage for seven generations — have for decades run a workshop in a quiet neighborhood in the western part of the city. A seemingly unremarkable street hides a peaceful corner where one can discover the unique character of this type of applied art. It is a profession in Uzbekistan that is strictly passed down from parents to children, with each generation creating its own techniques and motifs to add another link to the chain that allows their legacy to continue.

“First, we learn the basic techniques and roots of this art from our parents and grandparents. Then we focus on creating our own designs, ideally reflecting the times we live in. Finally, we teach the younger generation before they become teenagers, because that’s when their imagination is at its peak. All of this happens in the same place,” explains one of the family members, a father and grandfather of ceramic artists, in the beautiful, light-filled courtyard of Rakhimovs Studio. To one side is the work area, where the creative tools, works in progress, and even those discarded during the trial-and-error process reside. This space, steeped in tradition, also displays the various artistic iterations of this dynasty of creators. Some of these pieces are for sale. But before entering the workshop, you must make an appointment through their website.

The works of some of their ancestors can be found in the State Museum of Applied Art and Handicrafts of Uzbekistan. The building itself is a spectacle in its own right. It is a former palace of a Russian diplomat, decorated inside by some of the finest muralists and woodcarvers. The audio guide included with admission is essential to understanding the story the museum tells. It contains more than 7,000 pieces of folk art created in different regions of Uzbekistan: pottery from Rishtan, traditional costumes and gold embroidery from Bukhara, knives from Chust, and more.

Uzbekistan was part of the Soviet Union until its collapse in 1991. As a result, the capital city is a hybrid that blends with Soviet modernism and brutalism. This is due to the earthquake that struck the city in the 1960s, which necessitated the reconstruction of many of its major structures. In fact, Tashkent is an open-air museum of this type of architecture, unlike any other city in the former Soviet empire.

The people who designed these buildings allowed something unique: breaking the minimalism of Soviet concrete with decorative elements characteristic of Islamic art. One of the greatest examples of this fusion is the People’s Friendship Palace, whose futuristic, screw-shaped elements at the top contrast with the traditional pandzharas, latticework typical of Islamic architecture. This nod to Uzbekistan’s Islamic heritage is even more evident in the State Museum of the History of Uzbekistan.

Another great icon of this architectural fusion is the Hotel Uzbekistan. This enormous building, constructed in the early 1970s, inherits the open-book structure of Moscow’s Cosmos Hotel. But, once again, a gigantic latticework with geometric shapes characteristic of the aesthetic seen in Bukhara (although, in this case, made of concrete) covers the building’s 17 floors. Its function is not merely aesthetic, as this design allows for the management of light and heat within the structure. On its rooftop, as befits a luxury hotel, there is a restaurant and cocktail bar with a large observation deck.

Underground, many of the capital’s metro stations boast interior architecture replete with chandeliers, marble, and colorful carved alabaster, exuding a splendor similar to that of the renowned Moscow Metro. This connection is particularly evident at Kosmonavtlar station, which any visitor will almost inevitably pass through, being one of the most centrally located.

One of the organizations driving change in the country is the Uzbekistan Art and Culture Development Foundation (ACDF), which, in addition to preserving, promoting, and protecting cultural heritage, seeks to place Uzbekistan on the map of modern world art. One of its ambitious projects is the reconstruction of the residential palace of Grand Duke Romanov, commissioned in the late 19th century by Nikolai Konstantinovich Romanov, the grandson of Russian Emperor Nicholas I. Exiled to the Turkestan region by his family, he lived in Tashkent until his death in 1918. He left a positive mark on the city as one of its great patrons of the arts, and fostered its development. For example, he financed the city’s first cinema (Khiva), built irrigation canals, and founded numerous companies. The impressive palace, a clear heir to European architecture, can currently only be admired from the outside; its reopening is not scheduled until 2027.

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A line circles the globe at roughly 30 degrees north of Mexico: it dips, rises and wavers, dividing the world along economic lines. In Asia, it climbs and then drops to exclude Japan, Australia, and New Zealand from the “South.” This world map, split by what became known as the Brandt Line, appeared in the 1980 UNESCO report North–South: A Programme for Survival, coordinated by then–German chancellor Willy Brandt. The line blurred the familiar Cold War geography — even softening the contours of the Non‑Aligned Movement, born at the 1961 Belgrade summit and led by Yugoslavia, India, Egypt, Indonesia, and Ghana as a way to distance themselves from both sides of the Iron Curtain.

The southern side of the Brandt Line — minus South Korea and Israel — forms the most up‑to‑date definition of the Global South, a term that is steadily replacing “Third World” or “developing countries.” In the art world, the Global South has become the new hype. First used in 1969 by U.S. writer Carl Oglesby to criticize the “intolerable social order” imposed by the North, the term has recently crystallized into something new. It now dominates major art biennials: nearly all of their curators come from Global South backgrounds, and most of their artists do as well. The Venice Biennale, which opened on May 9, was curated by the Cameroonian thinker Koyo Kouoh (who passed away a year ago). Of its 111 participating artists, 62 were born in the Global South — and many others trace their origins to it.

A third space

“What does the Global South really mean?” asked ArtReview ahead of the 35th São Paulo Biennial in 2023. Manuel Borja‑Villel — the only white member of that Biennial’s curatorial team and former director of Spain’s Reina Sofía museum — says in a video call that the Global South’s current force in the art world reflects the decline of the global political order. “Europe is lost. The Global South allows us to reject the supposed universalism of the West. It makes other dynamics visible and legitimate.”

The Global South has now embedded itself in the narrative of major biennials. “Sharjah Biennial shines a light on the global south” was how the Financial Times titled its review of the most recent edition in the United Arab Emirates. Curated by five women from the South, Sharjah positioned itself as a genuine third space for artists from across the region. “The Global South works as a space of solidarities that brings diversity into dialogue. It’s crucial that art is produced far from the North,” says Māori curator Megan Tamati‑Quennell — the first Indigenous curator of a major biennial — speaking via video call.

The Navajo artist Raven Chacon’s work A Wandering Breeze, created for Sharjah, revealed the connective potential of the Global South. Chacon filled the abandoned houses of Al Madam — a village overtaken by desert sand decades ago — with sand. The Bedouin soundtrack used by Chacon also hinted at Indigenous resistance in his native Arizona desert.

Angolan writer and musician Kalaf Epalanga, a member of the acclaimed Lisbon group Buraka Som Sistema and author of Whites Can Dance Too, defends — with nuance — the term Global South. In his view, it is not a geographic space but a historical condition shaped by colonialism. “The Global South makes visible connections that don’t pass through Europe or the United States. It shifts the axis. Interest in the Global South stems from a real change: the center can no longer explain the world,” he says via email.

Amanda Carneiro, Afro-Brazilian curator at the São Paulo Museum of Art, prefers the term Global South to multiculturalism, “because it names the asymmetry between the universal narratives of the North and the subaltern world.” At the same time, the Global South grants legitimacy to other conceptions of art. At the Venice Biennale, for example, Kouoh’s team has designed spaces for Procession/Invocation (linked to Afro-Atlantic carnivals), Enchantment, and Physical and Spiritual Rest.

Meanwhile, the influence of the Global South is disrupting the hegemonic governance of the major biennales of the Global North. A case in point is the mass resignation of the current Venice Biennale’s jury, which stepped down in protest over the inclusion of Russia and Israel — countries whose presidents are accused of war crimes.

The Global South of the art world encompasses the “ecology of knowledges” proposed by Portuguese scholar Boaventura de Sousa Santos — which equates the knowledges of the South with Western science — the decolonial thought of Argentine philosopher Enrique Dussel — which replaces the universal with the pluriversal — and the subaltern voices defended by Indian theorist Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak.

The Global South “shifts the center” toward all the world’s cultures, as Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (who died in 2025) long demanded. The Global South has already become a geopolitical tool: diffuse in outline, porous, built on partial solidarities and historical affinities. The (Global) South emerges as the reverse of the status quo — a past that might have been, or an open future.

Indian curator Natasha Ginwala explains by email that it forms a “global majority” tied to decolonial vocabularies and ancestral knowledge; it offers another vision of the future in a time of social polarization and the rise of artificial intelligence.

South in the North

“Where do we look for North and South when we face the coexistence of a very wealthy Asian elite and undocumented Chinese workers in a grocery store in northeastern Italy?” asked Italian writer Wu Ming 1 (a member of the Wu Ming collective) in Esta revolución no tiene rostro (This Revolution Has No Face). The question continues to reverberate, split in two: is there South in the North? Is there North in the South?

Curator Megan Tamati‑Quennell embodies the tensions of the Global South in her own life. As a New Zealander, she belongs to the North; as a Māori woman, to the South. For her, African American artists are part of the Global South. The two novels that serve as cornerstones of the current Biennale highlight the dialogue between the Global South and the “South‑of‑the‑North”: Beloved, by African American writer Toni Morrison, and One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez. As a nod to the South, African American curator Naomi Beckwith will direct the Kassel Biennale in 2027.

The concept of the Global South is not without problems. On one hand, there is the risk that it becomes “folklorized and turned into a brand,” preventing structural change, as Borja‑Villel argues. On the other, it can erase hierarchies within the South itself, since elites often operate as the North, says Amanda Carneiro.

Kalaf Epalanga warns of the danger that the Global South becomes merely a visual or sonic atmosphere rather than “a way of being.” He cites the example of world music: it was created to make global musical traditions visible, but ended up as a catch‑all shelf “where everything fit and everything was far from the center.”

Political shift

On February 18, 2024, Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva championed the Global South in Ethiopia. “We were once known as poor countries, as Third World countries, as underdeveloped countries, as developing countries. No. Now we are the economy of the Global South.”

If the North has lost the reins of geopolitics, will the Global South take them? The challenge for this part of the world, says Afro-Brazilian curator Lorraine Mendes in a phone interview, is “to find a safety net for the dispossessed, solidarity through political agreements, and cultural connections to reorient the geopolitical map.”

Faced with a decaying global order, the Global South, through art, has a window of opportunity to establish, as Subcomandante Marcos suggested decades ago from Chiapas, “the dignified south omnipresent in all cardinal points.”

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