Raucous Nigeria’s blossoming art scene tweaks the powerful

Updated 31 December 2012

Raucous Nigeria’s blossoming art scene tweaks the powerful

Seated in a relaxed posture, the Nigerian oligarch stares out with a self-satisfied grin on his bulbous face, not bothered by the desperate masses behind him.
Artist Wande George said the inspiration for the painting, called “The Ruling Class,” is visible everyday in the posh Lagos district of Victoria Island where his work was recently displayed.
Nigeria, the most populous country in Africa, has long been regarded as one of the world’s most corrupt nations, where enormous oil wealth has been siphoned off into the bank accounts of a select few.
Its richest sometimes cruise in chauffeur-driven 4X4 vehicles and sleep in ostentatious mansions, while its teeming poor crowd into slums and eke out a living where they can.
But such inequality and adversity can spawn provocative and creative work, and Nigeria is certainly contributing its share.
“We deal with it,” said artist Joseph Eze, whose work has explored the destruction of slums that have forced poor residents to abandon their homes, among other issues. “Otherwise, we would have just gone to ashes.”
Visual art, including with a political bent, appears to be blossoming here, particularly with stifling military rule having come to an end in 1999 — though the famously raucous country was hardly culturally mute when it was led by soldier-dictators.
Nigerians such as late afrobeat musician Fela Kuti and Nobel literature prize winner Wole Soyika have long made their mark with politically focused work. Many painters and other visual artists working today are carrying the same torch.
“Local artists are looking more and more at how to express themselves,” said Marc-Andre Schmachtel of Germany’s Goethe Institute cultural organization, one of the judges at a recent national art competition in Nigeria.
“People are thinking outside the box now. Already from last year to this year, the level of competition has improved a lot,” he added, attributing the progress to changes in Lagos.
The sprawling city, despite being one of the world’s most chaotic, has in some ways become an easier place to pursue creative work, with its slowly growing middle class and growing number of art venues.
George, 50, told AFP that several of the pieces in his Re-Emergence series were inspired by the tawdriness with which some flaunt their wealth in a city where much of the roughly 15-million population is extremely poor.
Of the nameless, overstuffed aristocrat in the portrait, George said, “he doesn’t care about the people around him.”
His work was exhibited at a trendy Lagos complex that includes a small gallery, a pricey restaurant serving a full range of local dishes, a library and stage venue that hosts theatrical and musical performances.
At the national competition hosted at a conference center overlooking the Lagos lagoon, Eze, one of the finalists, used the foam from flip-flop sandals that he found discarded on a beach to assemble a large panorama showing the effects of urban development on slum residents.
Eze said he was seeking to chastise the powerful interests whose construction plans have forced thousands to leave their homes, including a recent case at a water-top slum built on stilts in Lagos.
The piece also saluted the ability of impoverished Nigerians to manage the adversity heaped on them by powerful interests, the 38-year-old artist explained.
Not all the finalists were pre-occupied by the hardships inflicted on the poor by the powerful
Alafuro Sikoki, 32, who won the $ 9,500 second prize, said her work is partly aimed at forcing Nigerians to confront the worrying traits that many here have accepted as normal.
Her 2012 prize-winning conceptual work “Cog” offered a theory to explain the immense popularity of the country’s Nollywood films, where outlandish plots, maximum drama and very, very loud performances are the rule.
Nollywood, she suggested, serves a “confessional” role in a country where many have suffered devastating trauma, but where discussing such incidents is often taboo.
“We don’t really talk about things,” she said. “Really horrible things have happened to people or their families and the only way for them to know that it’s not crazy or strange is to experience it on TV as well.”
This focus on concrete, modern issues is part of a trend emerging among many young Nigerian artists, who increasingly “reject any form of exoticism and Africanism” that many of their predecessors sought to highlight, said Eve Therond, a New York based artist and competition judge.
Of late, “Lagos has certainly drawn the attention of international curators and collectors,” she added.
One of Sikoki’s pieces, called “African Time,” featured a series of clocks set to different hours that criticized Nigerians’ propensity to arrive for appointments whenever they please.
“Why do we perceive time differently than everybody else?” she said. “We’re not on the moon!”

‘It might be our destiny to have Syria only in our imagination’

Syrian band Tanjaret Daghet (which means ‘pressure cooker’ in Arabic).
Updated 19 April 2018

‘It might be our destiny to have Syria only in our imagination’

  • Syrian artists-in-exile discuss their absence from their homeland and its impact on their work
  • For many exiled Syrian artists, their work is an expression of grief

DUBAI: “Being away from Syria is difficult,” young poet Maysan Nasser said. “Seven years later, it still feels like a phantom limb. It feels like the echo of white noise that is reverberating louder by the day.”

Nasser, a Beirut Poetry Slam champion, was talking separation: The idea that the loss of Syria is like an amputation. After seven years, she is still looking for answers to questions of home and belonging.

The first time I saw Nasser perform was last year during Zena El Khalil’s ‘Sacred Catastrophe: Healing Lebanon,’ a “40-day intervention” designed to permanently kick open the doors of Beit Beirut, a museum to the memory of the city in Sodeco. Her performance was raw and emotive.

The second time was in the basement of Riwaq Beirut, a coffee shop, cultural center and bar all rolled into one. She was addressing a small but appreciative young crowd and looked nervous. It was just a few weeks after she had launched the open-mic night ‘Sidewalk Beirut’ and the anxiety and jitters remained. In reality they shouldn’t. The crowd loves her.

“In this enforced distance from Syria, such communities have become my anchors,” she admitted. Yet her work, although deeply personal — sometimes painfully so — never directly discusses Syria or her home city of Damascus.

“I believe the distance of separation was the birth of my work,” she said. “It was in this distance that I was able to reconsider who I am, what my relationship to my family is like, what my relationship to my body is. I believe my poems to be attempts at understanding myself and my surroundings, but also my past.

“So when I speak about my mother and my relationship to her, I am also considering my mother’s past and the traditions she has internalized and passed on to me, which inevitably cast light on a time and place in Syria, and which inevitably expose my own connections and roots — or lack of, at times. This separation, in a sense, has coincided with a coming of age.”

At the same time as Nasser was hosting her early edition of Sidewalk Beirut, a mile or so away at The Colony in Karantina Zeid Hamdan, a pioneer of Lebanon’s underground music scene, was preparing to perform at Sofar Sounds. The venue —hidden up three flights of stairs in the Dagher Building — was little more than two empty rooms and an adjacent terrace. With him were the Syrian band Tanjaret Daghet (which means ‘pressure cooker’ in Arabic).

Hamdan has been performing with the trio since they left Damascus in 2011. Theirs is an energetic, sometimes harsh, alternative-rock sound, although that is changing. Their soon-to-be-released new album, “Human Reverie,” is as much about electronica as it is guitars and vocals.

“This pressure we’re living is kind of unique,” said Tarek Khuluki, the band’s guitarist and sometime vocalist. “You see people who are nagging about it or who are trying to use this pressure as a tool to escape the reality we’re living in, which can lead to unbalanced results. At the same time, you see people who are making the best they can with the little amount of nothing that they have. All they want is to see their ideas manifest themselves in art or in any other shape. 

“Psychologically, we’ve learned not to think too much and not to play the role of victims, but to focus on our own language, which is music.”

It’s hard to discern whether the war in Syria has had a direct impact on Tanjaret Daghet’s work, or whether the wider woes of the Arab world are partially responsible for their sound and lyrics. They sing of political oppression and societal pressure, the absence of feeling and the loss of voice.

“We do not live the state of war in the real sense of the word,” says Khaled Omran, the band’s lead singer and bassist. “What we’re living is a kind of internal war, which has arisen from our instincts as humans. It’s our right to express ourselves through art and music because it’s more humanistic, and this has allowed us to meet several artists and to exchange expertise. Who knows, maybe if we had stayed in Syria, none of that would have happened.” 

Outside of Beirut, up in the mountains of Aley, a series of old Ottoman stables have been converted into a residence for Syrian artists. Since it was first opened by Raghad Mardini in May 2012, Art Residence Aley has hosted numerous artists, including Iman Hasbani and Anas Homsi. Both now live in Berlin. Beirut, for some, is only transitory. 

“It has given me a wider vision of the world,” says the artist and film director Hazem Alhamwi of his own exile in Berlin. “Maybe it’s more painful, but it’s more real. It is training for how to change pain into creative energy. Since 2014 I have been painting a collection I call ‘Homeland in the Imagination’. It might be our destiny to have Syria only in our imagination.”

Alhamwi is best known for “From My Syrian Room,” a documentary in which, through art and conversation, he attempts to understand how Syrians have learned to live with the distress and anxiety caused by war. It was while editing the film in France in 2013 that he realized he could not return to Syria, he said.

“I feel tired,” he told Arab News. “I feel as if I have one leg here — where I have to integrate, and want to — and the other leg in Syria, where I cannot stop being interested in what is happening. My family, my friends and my memories are still there. On the other hand, I feel like I am discovering another kind of violence, moving from living under a military dictatorship to the dictatorship of money. It’s a smooth violence written on smooth paper and put into a clean envelope. I feel myself in the stomach of the capitalist machine.”

For many exiled Syrian artists, their work is an expression of grief; a way to portray an overwhelming sense of loss. For others, those expressions are more subtle.

“We watch so many lies on TV, that it looks like art could be the only honest witness to modern times,” said Alhamwi, whose next film, produced by Zeina Zahreddine and Florian Schewe, will examine issues of identity. “Even many people’s facial expressions are not real. But good art is not only a mirror of the artist, but also of the spirit of the time they live in; or it’s at least the result of this reaction (of) the artist (to) the era.

“Art always tries to get people to pay more attention and not to repeat the same mistakes, but to learn from them instead. In wars, where the feelings of people are ignored and all the focus is on weapons, killing, fire and iron, art protects people’s real memory, away from any agenda or propaganda. It is this complicated memory that reflects the events, the emotions and the point of view of the artist. That is why art is needed in war as a special documentation. To tell the stories of people who didn’t get involved, because of position or fate,” he continued. “Art is a way for artists to survive in a world controlled by violence.”