What does a future shaped by Muslim culture look like, and who has the power to define it?
In the realm of visual arts, these questions are being explored actively in studios, galleries, and online spaces. Artists are drawing inspiration from Islamic philosophy and traditional visual arts, expanding these ideas through technology, installations, digital media, and speculative imagery. Some artists identify with “Islamic” or “Muslim futurism,” while others explore these themes more fluidly. This evolving framework is rooted in historical legacy, tracing back to medieval Islamic astronomers, and is focused on future possibilities.
Islamic futurism doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It finds a predecessor in Afrofuturism, which has shown how marginalized histories and cosmologies can be harnessed to envision collective futures. The term “Islamic” transcends a single culture or aesthetic and isn’t confined to religious practices alone; it encompasses regions influenced by Muslim presence, trade, scholarship, and empire. Rather than anchoring the term to a specific location, it could be seen as a proposal examining how historical awareness influences future visions through global Islamic art.
Calligraphy serves as an entry point: as a visual medium for the Qur’an’s revelation, it holds religious authority and formal discipline, influencing manuscripts, objects, and architecture over centuries. Before “Islamic futurism” gained online popularity, Sudanese modernist painter Ibrahim El-Salahi was already exploring the potential of Arabic script.
Known as a pioneer of the Hurufiyya movement, which integrated Arabic script into modern painting between the 1950s and ’70s across Southwest Asia and North Africa, El-Salahi merged calligraphy with modernist art, drawing on his London education. Over time, recognizable letters transformed into abstract forms, from which faces and animals emerged. He begins with prayer and meditation, creating what he calls a “seed” drawing that evolves across the canvas.
“I have finally arrived at the conclusion that the work of art is but a springboard for the individual intellect,” El-Salahi expressed in an essay for his 2013 Tate Modern exhibition catalog. “The picture floats freely … an invitation to visual meditation and to a better knowledge of the self.”
El-Salahi’s approach is one path for calligraphy, emphasizing introspection. Artist Soraya Syed, of mixed Pakistani-French heritage, illustrates another, showing how classical foundations are vital and evolving.
Fascinated by Arabic calligraphy, Syed completed a seven-year apprenticeship in Istanbul, receiving her icazetname, a formal license denoting mastery and permission to teach the classical form, making her the first British person to earn this honor.
For Syed, the connection between the human form and the letterform is crucial.
“I was never convinced by the idea we were taught at university that Islamic calligraphy flourished simply because figurative art was restricted,” she explained to Hyperallergic. “The classical system itself is proportioned through bodily geometry.” Within this system, letters adhere to ratios and movement; transcribing them accurately demands a physical understanding of the alignment of hand, breath, and pen. Script, thus, is a choreography.
In Syed’s 2013 animation installation “Huriyyah,” complemented by Nitin Sawhney’s music and Salah El Brogy’s dance, and in subsequent immersive works, the script leaves the page, interacting with the environment. In these modern interpretations, Syed emphasizes precision. “Remaining in dialogue with tradition does not mean preserving it unchanged,” she noted. “It means understanding it deeply enough to respond to it.”
Like calligraphy, architecture arises from a philosophical grasp of order. Architectural features often labeled “Islamic”—such as domes, arches, and intricate patterns—draw from Byzantine, Roman, and Sasanian influences predating Islam, later adapted for sacred and civic purposes. In Islamic thought, geometry represents tawhid, the unity of all things, and mizan, the principle of balance in creation.
Islamic intellectual traditions view geometry as connecting the physical and spiritual realms, translating metaphysical principles into proportion and pattern. This tradition remains evident in Zarah Hussain’s work. Since the mid-2000s, Hussain has used digital systems to expand geometric traditions and animate Islamic patterns using programming languages like C++. Mathematical sequences generate movement from within the artwork. By creating structures that never repeat, Hussain brings to life the spiritual logic within Islamic geometry, with infinity suggesting forces beyond human control.
“I want the artwork to move people,” Hussain stated. “You should not have to read a wall text to understand it.” She likens the experience to entering a mosque or cathedral, where one can feel awe without sharing the faith.
In “Infinite Light” (2024), a sculpture in Bradford, England, activates at sunset, aligning with the celestial rhythms that define Islamic time and signifying the exact moment of iftar during Ramadan, marking the end of the fast. Her 3D light sculpture “Numina” (2016), inspired by traditional muqarnas in architecture, similarly reimagines sacred geometry into an expansive field of repeating arches, projecting a future based on Islamic design principles.
“Islam asks us to be in touch with the sun and the moon, to be reminded that we do not have any power over the timings of the day, there is a divine order to things,” Hussain added.
Islamic visual traditions have long embraced realities beyond direct perception. In Qur’anic cosmology, djinn, beings made of smokeless fire, coexist alongside human life. This metaphysical aspect is vividly captured in Fabrice Monteiro’s acclaimed series The Prophecy (2013). Through 13 large-scale photographs, the Dakar-based photographer combines fashion and documentary styles to address environmental issues in West Africa.
In each photograph, a lavishly dressed djinn emerges from landscapes scarred by pollution and exploitation—garbage heaps, eroded forests, contaminated waters—making visible what has long been ignored. The djinn serves as a witness, revealing the spiritual and ecological impacts of human activity, in line with Qur’anic teachings linking environmental degradation to human actions and promoting humility toward creation.
“We are living through a critical moment in human history. If we continue reinforcing artificial divisions, we will not be able to change the dangerous systemic path we have been following for too long,” Monteiro emphasized. “Solidarity is essential.”
The principle of collectivism also shapes the language and practices of MIPSTERZ. Founded during Ramadan in 2012 by Yusuf Siddiquee, Abbas Rattani, and Shimul Chowdhury, the collective emerged from a need for spaces where Muslim artists and cultural workers could find community in New York City. Informal iftars evolved into an online network—a “digital ummah”—and early projects like the short film “Somewhere in America” (2013) gained significant traction, inspiring similar gatherings in other cities.
“We were nervous,” Siddiquee admitted about initially using the term “Muslim futurism” in a conversation with Hyperallergic. “We’re not academics. We were trying to talk about something we were observing.” He further explained that the 2022 ALHAMDU digital conference, involving participants from various regions, helped solidify discussions around Muslim futurisms. “For us, the process of working together felt more important than the end product,” he added.
This collaborative spirit continues to guide their work. Through exhibitions and events featuring artists across generations—from emerging voices like Anum Awan, Aisha Shillingford, and Tijay Mohammed to established figures such as Shahzia Sikander—MIPSTERZ approaches Muslim futurism as a shared practice.
Ultimately, the question may not be what a Muslim future looks like but what it feels like. Among these artists and organizations, it emerges as a space that embraces diversity, respects heritage, and welcomes those who enter.
Islamic or Muslim futurism, therefore, does not confine itself; it extends outward. It is akin to a dome that gathers without restricting, a mihrab that guides without limiting who may stand before it.
