Small is Beautiful

Yesterday I visited the Small is Beautiful exhibition in South Kensington, which brings together 33 international artists who all work on a tiny scale. The artworks in this exhibition were all miniatures but the show itself was massive and full of surprises around every corner. There were some very clever, and often humorous, pieces. Tiny figures painting mushrooms a deep red to make them appear poisonous and therefore protect them from human foragers.

A candy beach with marshmallow icebergs floating nearby and a pirate’s cave full of Ferrero Rocher treasure.

As if that wasn’t Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds enough, there was also a glimpse of the miniature Beatles, played by Lego pieces, belting out what I imagine would be tiny tunes in front of a studio audience.

I was particularly amused by German artist Frank Kunert’s creations, for instance a hybrid between a red telephone box and a red monoplane, which billed itself as an early attempt at making a mobile phone. Or a model of a stair lift which seemed like it could carry an ageing occupant up to the heavens. I was inspired by the inventiveness on display and would like to try my hand at some miniature art myself.

There’s something about looking at tiny things. Appreciation for the level of detail and the fragility of the artwork, perhaps. Just last week I watched The Glass Menagerie with Amy Adams in the role of the demanding mother. All of the characters in that play are like little pieces of glass, easy to break and yet fascinating precisely because of that vulnerability.

Perhaps that’s the charm of an exhibition like Small is Beautiful. The Time Out review wryly suggested that one should be careful not to sneeze, or you’d be left with no artwork and a lot of mucus and embarrassment. That’s a tall order in these times. The pandemic has made us all aware of just how fragile we are, how tiny in the grand scheme of things.  And that is nothing to sneeze at.