Who gets to call themselves an artist? Is it Chippy Aiton and Jon Barry, who need assistance to hold their arms up while painting? Is it Terrance Barr, who is partially blind, feeling his way around clay? Is it people who can create for a maximum of 20 minutes a day, or only those who are able to sit and work for hours?

differently various opens with an interrogation of what defines an artist and who that definition excludes in an industry that is overwhelmingly white, middle-class and non-disabled. The grand finale of a five-year partnership between the Barbican and brain injury charity Headway East London, the exhibition is thought to be the largest ever created by people with a brain injury, displaying 124 works by more than 70 artists.

It isn’t surprising that its participants are asking this question, as the politics around supporting and platforming disabled art can be painstaking. Several accessibility measures have been put into place for this show, such as a temporary ramp at the entrance and communication cards (though there is no Braille nor mention of wearing masks), but they will mostly be gone when differently various finishes.

This calls into question: if many disabled people can’t even enter galleries, how can we be considered to display our works in them? Simply through the privilege of existing in a mainstream space with a ramp, this exhibition feels like a small step forward on a long road towards equity for disabled artists and art fans.

differently various takes the viewer through four journeys: Experience, Learning, Creativity and Community. Initially we are confronted by images evoking a sense of despair, depicting the harsh realities of what it’s like to live in a world hostile to disability and in bodies that don’t perform how they used to. In Mike Hoyle’s installation The Seven Demons of Disability we see colourful plastic spines with skull heads at the top, one of which contains a brain that has been split in two, representing injury. In Billy Mann’s My Stroke, he writes of his debilitating experiences on a collection of five paintings. One piece describes rehab as “maybe it is more than I deserve. Maybe”.

Chris Miller’s painting Me as Venus reimagines Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus with an image of his own body, questioning standards around beauty, perfection and disability. Elsewhere we find Lawrence’s Language, a 15-metre scroll of colourful pencil scribbles and doodles by Lawrence Carroll, whose main method of communication is through blinking.

The artists on display have chosen different media forms – from narrative video to oil paint, pencil, papier-mache and huge, cross-stitched canvases draping the room – to share their stories of how they acquired their brain injuries, personal moments in their rehabilitation journeys, what it has been like moving through the pandemic as a person with a brain injury and what community means to them.

It is at times uncomfortable to read the personal stories scrawled across imagery and in the video content on display. Tales that so viscerally illustrate people coming to terms with loss and grieving the body they used to have, and that so brutally and colourfully depict the imperfect world in which we live. But as you move around the tight curve into the expansive section of the gallery, you are also greeted by joyful art that reimagines and celebrates. Take Tirzah Mileham’s pen and ink drawings When Women and Fish Ruled the World, or the joyful collaborative embroidery and applique Sister Stitch, in which seven artists depict sisterhood and community.

Through differently various, a collective has found a space to express themselves and push boundaries. Their work is sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful, often both, and in each case prompts a rollercoaster of thought and emotion. Isn’t that the true definition of artistry?

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