Misan Harriman - The Purpose of Light

Walking into The Purpose of Light at Hope 93, the first thing you meet is a question on the wall: “Why is ending racism a debate?”. It’s a simple line with a sharp edge. It sets the tone for an exhibition that doesn’t whisper its intentions. It asks you where you stand, and what you do next.

Across more than a hundred photographs made between 2019 and 2025, Misan Harriman turns the usual gallery gaze around. People look back at you. It’s not confrontational for the sake of it; it’s a steady, human kind of challenge, almost like the sitters are holding the room, asking whether you’ve done enough, and what your presence here might mean. The choice to work in black and white does a lot of heavy lifting: it clears away visual noise, centres faces and gestures, and lets small details (hands, eyes, banners) carry the weight.

The show is big in scope and clear in message. There is grief and anger, yes, but also care, humour, and tenderness: the power and unity of protest as community. In a moment when the UK’s right to protest has been steadily narrowed (censored by being clear) by new laws and expanded police powers, these pictures feel like a quiet counter-march: peaceful, composed, and absolutely unafraid to claim space. They remind us that visibility is part of civic life, not an inconvenience to be managed.

The curation moves you between moods. The soundtrack in the gallery shifts from reflective to charged, one minute you’re breathing with the images, the next you’re bracing to step outside and join a crowd. That rhythm matters. It keeps the work from flattening into “protest pictures” and instead frames them as invitations: witness, feel, act.

What I appreciated most is how the exhibition stretches beyond a single headline or moment. Harriman’s lens moves between places and causes while staying with people. The through-line is solidarity. That’s not abstract here; it is also the steady craft of showing up again and again with a camera, not to consume pain but to hold space for truth.

There is, of course, a risk with any gallery show about protest: that the work becomes too polished, too easy to admire at a safe distance. Here, the opening question keeps puncturing that comfort. So does the directness of the portraits and the scale of the presentation. It’s hard to remain passive when the subjects’ eyes are level with yours. The show doesn’t hand you answers. It asks for responsibility. That’s the difference between images that sensationalise dissent and images that nourish public life.

Hope 93 is a fitting home for this, its mission is to platform under-represented voices and open the door to people who might not usually feel welcome in art spaces. The presentation is uncluttered, the welcome is warm, and the emphasis is on connection rather than exclusivity. The result feels less like a monument and more like a gathering: you’re in a room with people who have something to say, and you’re being asked to listen properly.

And one last note: Harriman himself is often there, welcoming people into the space. I had the chance to chat with him, and it struck me how rare that is. Few artists or curators spend that much time on the ground, ready to chat, to listen, to hold space for others. Those conversations, about the work but also about the world we live in, are part of the exhibition too. They remind us that art is not just to be looked at, but to be lived with, and that dialogue is as urgent as the images themselves.

If the title points to anything, it’s this: light is not only what reveals; it’s what guides. Harriman uses it to mark where care is happening, where courage shows its face, where a future flickers into view. The exhibition is a reminder that documentation can be a form of participation. Looking here is not passive. It’s a first step, one that carries a responsibility into the street.

Go ready to be seen as much as you can see. And if you leave feeling moved, consider that the show has already done part of its work. The rest is ours.