Nnena Kalu is an artist. She is also, as of this week, a winner of the Turner prize. Her work – twisting ribbon forms made from old VHS tape, plastic and strips of fabric – has been praised for its “finesse of scale, composition and colour” (the judges), its “emphasis … on the visual, tactile and experiential in art” (Mark Hudson, the Independent) and for being “so full of life and energy … so embodied, so sensuous” (Adrian Searle, this newspaper).
As well as being an artist, Kalu also happens to be autistic, has a learning disability and does not communicate verbally as much as many neurotypical people (she is supported by the organisation ActionSpace). These things shouldn’t matter, and perhaps one day they won’t. However, neurodivergent artists have not historically been given much space by the art world, especially not those with learning disabilities. Four years ago, when Project Art Works – a collective of neurodivergent artists – was nominated for the prize, its CEO, Kate Adams, recounted to me how she was told by a museum professional: “I don’t think it’s right [to have] people with learning disabilities in an exhibition downstairs with an artist of calibre upstairs. They shouldn’t be in the same building.”
So this prize for Kalu feels like a powerful moment of acceptance. Having a differently wired brain, a communication difference or a learning disability does not preclude someone from being seen, and lauded, as an artist. Does that mean we are finally moving away from the notion of the capital-“A” artist (a white male “genius”, usually), and embracing the word in all its magical diversity? Along with many autistic people, as well as the people who love them, not to mention anyone else with a wider view of “artist” than the parameters it has historically been given, I find myself hoping that the time has finally come that we can appreciate art in all its myriad, complex forms.
Alas, as with much of the discourse around disability and autism in Britain and the US, I find myself inevitably disappointed. For all of the praise that has been heaped on Kalu and the hailing of her win as a historic moment, there have also been a number of depressing responses. “Maddening”, the Telegraph whinged. Meanwhile, the Sunday Times art critic Waldemar Januszczak, who had already been affronted by Kalu’s nomination (“I left the room wondering who was right: the art critic judging the evidence? Or the Turner judges showing compassion and widening the definition of good art?”), wore his prejudice on his sleeve in seeming to suggest that the prize was only awarded out of a sense of pity, as opposed to on the merits of the work:
“She has one mode. And cruel as it sounds, it is not the job of art to confuse therapy with talent. Nor is it the task of the Turner prize to play doctors and nurses or involve itself so flagrantly in the collection of medical brownie points.”
Nnena Kalu, centre, is announced as the winner of the 2025 Turner prize. Photograph: James Speakman/PA
How offensive you find this will vary from person to person. Considering my family background, I find his words, on a personal level, quite nauseatingly unpleasant. More important, from an academic perspective, I am struck by the paucity of his vision. To Januszczak, the judges are flying in the face of critical authority. They can only be giving this prize for reasons of charity, compassion and virtue signalling (prejudiced assumptions that neurodivergent artists have long fought against). As an arbiter of “good” and “bad” art, Januszczak is “baffled” by the work. As ever with certain art critics, that bafflement never seems to provoke more profound, interesting questions. What are the limits of my own understanding? What has shaped my personal conception of artistic meaning and worth? Why does some people’s idea of art seem to be wider, and more embracing, than my own?
As for art as therapy, well: show me an artist who hasn’t made work as a means of survival, a form of emotional processing or a deep exploration of the meaning of existence? Art is a way for us to seek to understand, or to be understood. But it is not only that. It is the manifestation of our inner worlds. That so many seem to struggle with Kalu’s version of that is, to me, very telling. They highlight her repetitive working processes, the involvement of assistants.
It reminds me of an argument I had with my tutor at university, when I said that I had always believed Andy Warhol (talk about using assistants!) to be neurodivergent. There was something about the compulsive, repetitive way in which he worked, I said. My tutor was annoyed, as though “autism” reduced the integrity, or genius, of the work somehow. That wasn’t what I meant at all. All art is the manifestation of a unique brain, and Warhol’s was no exception.
One of the things that you learn when you study the history of art – or at least if you’re thinking about it deeply – is that language has limits regarding visual art. I wish more critics could be humble about this problem. If we are to take as our starting point the insufficiency of verbal or written expression with regard to visual art, then our traditional conceptions start to break down. My belief has always been that art is one soul speaking to another. It doesn’t matter whether that soul spoke 16th-century Italian (Michelangelo), or some extinct paleolithic tongue (whoever made the woman of Hohle Fels), uses less language than some others (Kalu), or modern American English (Jackson Pollock, who nonetheless chose to say little about the “rationale” behind his work). All that matters is that my soul hears, or more specifically feels, theirs.
And that, right there, is what really makes an artist.
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Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist and author. She wrote the novel The Tyranny of Lost Things, the memoir The Year of the Cat, and a collection, The Republic of Parenthood. Her second novel, Female, Nude, will be published in 2026
