he human characters in the work of Onaiz Taji are not only futile but also innumerable. The artist, a graduate of miniature painting from the National College of Arts, Lahore, (NCA) has been drawing numerous tiny figures tied together and tightly packed within the picture frame. Rendered in singular lines (mostly the sepia tint) of brush or pen, Taji locks multiple people next to one another – without his hand ever faltering or smudging his mark.

Two points are crucial to comprehend his style, now a signature/ identity of the artist practicing for the last six or seven years. The first links to his studies at the NCA; the second relates to the city of Karachi where he lives and works. Both factors contribute in an indirect – yet logical - way to shape his vocabulary.

Since the revival, rather the reincarnation of miniature painting at the ateliers of NCA (a phenomenon begun in the early nineties of the past century that produced Shahzia Sikander, Imran Qureshi, Aisha Khalid, Ambreen Butt, Nusra Latif Qureshi, Talha Rathor, Tazeen Qayyum, Waseem Ahmed, Muhammad Zeeshan, Saira Wasim, Hasnat Mehmood, and several others), the artists have been modifying the imagery, technique, narrative, medium, even the genre of traditional miniature to cope with the sensibilities of contemporary art. Yet in their creations, from multi-channelled videos to site-specific installations, from digital prints to mixed media works, from flat surfaces to three-dimensional objects, from huge pieces to small scale items, one can spot a residue of the classical miniatures. Visuals of kings, inclusion of flora and fauna, experiments with spatial division, introduction to pile-up perspective, deconstructing decorative borders and dismantling historic content are a few traits/ tactics visible in practices across locations, experiences/ exposures and levels of recognition/ fame.

It requires a tedious effort to trace a segment of miniature painting in the art of Onaiz Taji. His figures do not stem from the Mughal era, nor are those engaged in violence, hunting or intimacy. These are not situated against a peculiar architecture – medieval, modern or contemporary. In their attire, actions and arrangements these individuals do not remind viewers of the conventional miniature – neither its revised versions of our times. Yet the work of Onaiz Taji is deeply rooted in the aesthetics of old miniature painting.

In some Mughal and Rajasthani miniatures, one comes across scenes of military expeditions, animal hunts, crowded bazaars – even court views, in which painters have composed hundreds of figures in one surface. A miniature displayed at the Lahore Museum depicts Emperor Aurangzeb on his elephant next to rows of army men accompanying the sovereign in his campaign. Another miniature painting from Rajasthan portrays the raja riding his steed with a sequence of soldiers on their horses, arranged in separate, yet identical bands.

Interestingly, the indigenous painters did not follow optical distortion in size that occurs due to distance. They favoured another formula for variation in scale. Based upon the social status of the person rather than his/ her physical (temporary) position. In Rajasthani miniature, the king is bigger than his subjects, whereas in Mughal painting the royal personage and his army share the same scale – although the emperor occupies the central space. The difference of scale due to one’s standing in the society was first observed in the ancient Egyptian art, in which the pharoah and his courtiers were represented as the most dominant entities in a fresco painting or a relief sculpture, compared to others who had various heights depending upon their rank. In one fresco, a minister is drawn larger than his wife and mistress, his son is even smaller, but when it comes to labourers and peasants, they are tiny, and identical in their measurements (regardless of human variability in height and weight).

The art of Onaiz Taji relates to our situation – much like his medieval Mughal predecessors who painted scenes required by the court and convention – yet managed to say something besides; about formal matters or the social/ political atmosphere.

In Onaiz Taji’s new work (from his solo exhibition, Afraad Kay Haathon Mein Hai Aqwaam Ki Taqdeer, San’at Initiative Karachi, June 13-22), there are hordes of people, standing, strolling, relaxing, lying - yet similar in size. This is like the letters of alphabet, or the traditional miniature painter’s delineation of common people. Taji’s choice of an unchanging scale for his figures regardless of their location reflects his decision and dedication to present a silent majority, an accumulation of numbers, an audience at a political rally.

His aim is to focus on innumerable beings/ types. This invokes the legacy of miniature painting (which he tried to capture through sepia). It is also about our present state. The title of the exhibition which suggests that individuals have the power to decide the future of nations, could be about the significance of a single, ordinary being (especially if we bring in the second line of Allama Iqbal’s couplet, Har Fard Hai Millat Kay Muqaddar Ka Sitara (every person is a star of the nation’s destiny). Looking at his works, one realises that these are nameless, faceless – even placeless people. This is particularly true in the context of Karachi.

Yet, it might have been best for the painter not to include the backdrop or some reference to/ suggestion of the port town, because these works could reveal the saga of any metropolis (Mexico City, Mumbai, Sao Paulo) of population surviving their routine – while striving to migrate for a better future. Onaiz Taji creates closely bound human figures: standing in a queue for immigrant applications; gathered at a playground; attending a political moot, but they are nobodies, anonymous, as suggested by the title of his work, Faceless.

Seeing the huddles in this and other art pieces, one recognises that the artist is addressing the situation in Karachi. The city with an estimated population of 17,236,000 is choking; so are some of Onaiz Taji’s pictures, with figures filled from edge to edge. A detail that elevates Taji, beyond a mere chronicler of the city to a commentator, is how he indicates a crucial aspect of our epoch. The displacement – in the form of migration and/ or political and ethnic extinction. In Migration I, II, one detects an assemblage of humans moving towards another destination/ destiny. Because stuck in this country, they may be consumed by a terrorist’s explosion, a political activist’s target killing, or a petty criminal’s hyper reaction. Human Trash (2023) illustrates this condition, with bodies of unknown citizens left at a public venue.

Onaiz Taji’s art relates to our situation – much like his medieval Mughal predecessors who painted scenes required by the court, convention – yet managed to say something besides; about formal matters or the social/ political atmosphere. In his ink-on-paper work, Onaiz Taji delineates the trauma of a city and its human response, transcending a specific locality or a particular age. The de-situated person of his paintings – clad in a dress worn in Tokyo, New Delhi, Cairo, Dhaka and many other disenchanted, disturbed, and dispossessed capitals of the world – is perhaps none other than us.

The writer is an art critic based in Lahore