But I am breathing under water (detail), Thread, graphite on trace paper, 2017

Every Mask I Ever Loved

Wura-Natasha Ogunji

Curated by Eva Barois De Caevel

ifa-Galerie Berlin

September 29, 2017-January 14, 2018

Opening: 7pm, Thursday, September 28, 2017

Performances

The Kissing Mask, Thursday, September 28, 8pm.

If I loved you, Friday, September 29, 6pm.

Sweep, Saturday, September 30, 3pm

The Kissing Mask, Saturday, January 13, 2pm

In “Every Mask I Ever Loved” Wura-Natasha Ogunji presents a series of newly commissioned drawings, and re-creations of her performances “Sweep”, “The Kissing Mask”, and “If I loved you”, thereby continuing her exploration of the presence of women in both public and private space. The exhibition consists of a display of works that are instrumental within the performances or act as echoes of it.

Through drawings (comprised of hand-stitched figures on architectural trace paper), video and performance, Ogunji explores physicality, endurance and gestures of the body; our relationship to geographical, architectural and filmic space; as well as memory and history. Many of her performances highlight the relationship between the body and social power and presence, investigating how women, in particular, occupy space through both epic and ordinary actions.

Splitting her time between Austin and Lagos, Ogunji was deeply influenced by her experience of living between two countries and, more recently, of residing in Lagos. “Sweep” was originally performed during Ogunji’s first visit to Nigeria: she wanted the land to remember her presence. She has since performed it in different contexts and countries, deepening her thinking about the presence of women within those societies, and exploring the notion of homeland and diasporic identity. “The Kissing Mask” and “If I loved you” are ways to experiment with self-consciousness, intimacy and privacy, and what one could call “the limits of empathy and identification.” (Kathy-Ann Tan, 2016).

Being the exhibition of the third chapter of « Untie to Tie », dedicated to intersectional feminisms, « Every Mask I Ever Loved » wishes to be not a discourse about feminism but an assertion : an existing space for one artist, not « expected to educate […] white people, […] men […] to [her] humanity » (Audre Lorde, 1984), but invited to express what matters to her, freely and creatively.

--Eva Barois De Caevel

Gallery Hours
Tuesday-Sunday, 2–6 pm  
www.untietotie.org

www.ifa.de

*

Exhibition Opening: expansion of t i m e

Works by Wura-Natasha Ogunji & Raoul Olawale Da Silva

curated by Sandra Obiago

Exhibition Opening

Saturday, February 25, 2017

2 - 5pm

Temple Muse, Victoria Island, Lagos

February 25-April 28, 2017

The Kissing Mask

The Kissing Mask was first performed at the Seattle Art Museum as part of the opening night of Disguise: Masks and Global African Art curated by Pam McClusky & Erika Dalya Massaquoi.    

The Kissing Mask is a performance inspired by one of ruby onyinyechi amanze's drawings. The drawing is titled:

that low hanging kind of sun, the one that lingers two feet above your head, (never dying) house plants in exchange for your freedom...orchids in exchange for your love, who are you kissing, when you kiss a mask?

I was particularly drawn to this question: who are you kissing, when you kiss a mask? For the performance I have created a mask [which riffs off of amanze's drawing].  I sit on a plinth over the course of the evening and kiss audience members who approach me. These may be cheek, face or lip kisses.

Photograph: John Rudolph

The Kissing Mask reconnects the 'artifact' to the present moment by proposing an intimate act between artist, mask and viewer. As such, this performance complicates and dismantles the mask as sacred object or historical relic by making use of it on a living body [that of the artist/performer]. The performance also becomes a vehicle to speak about what constitues intimacy, touch, and connection. What do we share with and show to our family, friends and strangers? Does a mask offer a space to negotiate that intimacy outside of society's rules? Does the mask come alive only through the audience? Or simply the artist? Or, is it always charged? Do the intentions of the wearer and/or viewer affect the power and pull of the object?

amanze writes further about her drawing:

when i think about kissing a mask i think about kissing something that isn't. something that is blocking you from the thing that you understand is like you. something that is a disguise. but so perfectly, that it's becomes its own thing. a mask is a mask. and it's inanimate 90% of the time. but can be charged in the right hands. or on the right body. i wondered in that drawing about kissing this relic. this stolen, no longer charged representation of africa. kissing it to revive it. kissing it to see what africa tasted like. kissing it because you're in love. with this thing. or with what this thing is trying to be. or is in your head. or none of the above. maybe it was just this woman ghost kissing merman who had on a mask.

In my own work I often use masks to interrupt present time and create space or claim power. The mask is an opening, a way to claim physical, social or liminal space. But, I am also interested in how this particular mask and performance [in true trickster fashion] might simply be 'none of the above', an object completely devoid of the sacred or reverent.

Other work that I am thinking about with regard to this performance includes: James Luna [The Artifact Piece,1986], Tracey Rose [The Kiss, 2001], and Lorna Simpson [Flipside, 1991].

* * * 

NO SUCH PLACE: Opens February 26, 2015

detail from The Garden, 2015

No Such Place: Contemporary African Artists in America
Curated by Larry Ossei-Mensah & Dexter Wimberly 
Opening Reception: February 26, Thursday, 6-8pm
Edward Tyler Nahem Gallery 
37 West 57th Street, NY
February 26-April 3, 2015

featuring: ruby onyinyechi amanze, Modou Dieng, Brendan Fernandes, Derek Fordjour, SherinGuirguis, Vivienne Koorland, Wura-Natasha Ogunji, and AdejokeTugbiyele

Edward Tyler Nahem Fine Art announces No Such Place: Contemporary African Artists in America curated by Larry Ossei-Mensah and Dexter Wimberly, a group exhibition that highlights recent work by nine contemporary African artists living and working in the United States.
The exhibition’s curators, Larry Ossei-Mensah and Dexter Wimberly, seek to initiate a nuanced discussion about "Africaness" in the context of contemporary culture. By including multi-generational artists from African countries as varied as Egypt, Ghana, Kenya, Nigeria, Senegal, South Africa, and Zimbabwe, they seek to further debunk the idea of Africa as a singular, monolithic "place". The exhibition highlights artists who express cultural duality and punctuates the complexities of African identity.

In stating, "There is no such thing as contemporary African art – there is only contemporary art from Africa,” Bisi Silva, independent curator and founder/director of the Centre for Contemporary Art in Lagos, Nigeria warns against generic geographical descriptions of art from a continent that is so vast and diverse. Taking a cue from Silva’s significant statement, No Such Place investigates the overlapping signifiers and great diversity present in these particular artists’ work, providing a space that fosters a broader dialogue about culture, aesthetics, religion and politics. No Such Place dives into artistic intuition, exploring how these nine artists process identity and represent their individual points of view.

According to Nahem "There is a new and talented wave of artists emanating from all corners of the rich cultural tapestry known as Africa. We are excited to share in this exploration of contemporary work from a small group of artists from the diaspora, whose diversity lends itself to age, gender, roots and geography. Their new world is ideally one that opens us up to our own concept of the newness of Africa today. We are excited to provide such a forum and hopefully to be a meeting ground and catalyst for its growth and dissemination."

* * *

Performances That Seek to Interrupt: Nigerian Artist Wura-Natasha Ogunji & The Craft of Spectacle

*Interview by Maryam Kazeem, originally published on the blog okayafrica

Photo: Ema Edosio 

As they walk through the streets of Yaba in Lagos, Nigeria Wura-Natasha Ogunji and six women dressed in matching costumes and masks around their faces, carry kegs full of water that are strapped to their ankles. Catching the attention of those they pass on the street, Ogunji describes the thoughts racing through her mind at the time, “in that beginning moment i doubted so much. i had to remember the words i had spoken upstairs. trust, rest, trust. i learned so much in the first five minutes. walking required my entire body (were we actually even walking? it felt like something else).” However, this isn’t the first time Ogunji has performed this act- in 2011 she crawled along the ground “with water kegs tied to [her ankles] inspired by the daily task of carrying water at [her] cousin’s house.” In collaboration with the Center for Contemporary Art Lagos (CCA), in Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman? Ogunji creates a spectacle out of the mundane by illuminating certain notions of women and space in Lagos.

In their performance, Ogunji and the other women are dressed in matching costumes (with an “Afrofuturistic touch”) for more than just aesthetic appeal, rather Ogunji attempts to conjure images of the Egungun Masquerade, which women are not typically allowed to perform. In tradition during the Egungun masquerade the masked dancer is allowed to travel anywhere and they are protected (People are not even allowed to touch them); as such, Ogunji builds on the daily task of carrying water, by simultaneously “allowing women to occupy a sacred, dynamic, and public space” through their performance as masked water carriers. In her quest to evoke dynamics between labour and women, Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman? is one mere example of how Ogunji’s work excavates the complexities of the relationship between women, society, space and politics.

Based in Austin and Lagos, Wura-Natasha Ogunji is “best know for her videos, in which she uses her own body to explore movement and mark-making across water, land and air.” She has received a number of awards for her working including a John Simon Guggeinheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship (2012). If we think of performance art as art that “does” in the immediate, specifically in the space that it occurs, yet also has the capacity to travel in impact and medium as a consequence- then Ogunji’s pieces aim to “do” in Lagos. We asked her a few questions about her recent work- her experiences carrying out these ambitious performances, the audience engagement and what she has coming up in the near future.

beauty performance conceived by Nicole Vlado and Wura-Natasha Ogunji. Image: Ema Edosio

OKA: Performance art often involves creating a spectacle. Do you ever worry that people are more focused on the spectacle rather than the messages you’re trying to convey? 

Wura-Natasha Ogunji: I’m interested in creating a particular exchange between the performers and the audience.  This requires a kind of respect and consideration for the public which I don’t at all associate with spectacles.  When I think about a spectacle it brings to mind a particular image or event that is intended to shock.  And things that shock us don’t necessarily create opportunities for conversations or transformation.  I love this question you are asking because it really gets at the challenge of creating meaningful performance.

As an artist I am creating certain parameters and asking certain questions but I don’t determine the answers and I certainly don’t own the experience.  The collective is incredibly important to this process–be they audience members or performers or students trying performance for the first time or a bystander who participates.  I expect the audience to do some work, to ask questions, to figure some things out on their own.  People sometimes ask, what is this about?  And my first answer is always, what do you think it’s about?  What did you see, feel and experience?

I have found people in Lagos to be very generous.  They ask questions.  They respect the performance and the performers.  They give a lot.  But they also require a lot because you can see crazy things here on a daily basis, in any moment.  I am very interested in interruptions and disorientation.  The fact that we are women occupying public space in unexpected ways is an immediate interruption.  I want people to stop to look because they are seeing something that calls their attention in a particular way–and not in a violent way.  A fight can stop traffic.  I want to interrupt someone’s daily journey with something different.  I want people to stop, to witness, to comment on the work or ask questions because they feel drawn to it, pulled by it in a way that expands the imagination.

OKA: You mention that a lot of your work is done through your body as a way of understanding larger questions of how bodies engage with space.  Are you also addressing more abstract notions of space (diaspora) particularly as someone who lives in the U.S. and Nigeria?

WNO: Yes, absolutely.  My previous video and performance work definitely considered larger spaces of the diaspora.  I was particularly interested in the Atlantic as a site for memory, history, creativity.   The videos I made including ‘The epic crossing of an Ife head’ provided a way for me to explore this space between Africa and the Americas.   I began that series because I had a question about this relationship. I asked “Does homeland long for us?”  In answering that question I thought about the physical efforts that the Ife head would have to go through to find her descendents in the Americas.  In order to cross the Atlantic she must either fly or walk on water.  Taking on that persona of the Ife head I attempt to fly by jumping into the air.   I saw the physicality of that act as akin to the efforts required to make that connection across space which is really across that enormous ocean.  The journey is also about moving through one’s history–both personal and collective.

Now that I am in Lagos my questions have, of course, changed.  I can say that homeland indeed longs for us which I understand to mean that there’s a place for me here in this present moment.  And now my engagement with the body (both my own and others) is affected by this particular urban space in which I find myself.

OKA: What has the response been to your recent pieces, beauty and Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?

WNO: People always have a lot of questions.  With beauty the five of us had our hair braided together and we stayed that way for four hours.  There were people who said we wouldn’t make it, that we wouldn’t last the four hours.  There was someone in the audience who talked about how this piece was for Nigerians.  I understood that to mean that the person not only felt a connection to the work but that they thought it had relevance to this place and people specifically.  My favorite response was a conversation with a young girl, perhaps she was 9 years old.  She asked why we had done the performance and then I spoke with her about the connections we have as women to our hair and the even more important connections we have to each other.  She understood that of course, she feels it too.

Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman? was different.  We were masked during the piece. I heard a lot of comments about our strength.  A friend told me that someone asked why we would be carrying water kegs through the streets if we were not getting paid.  There was also a woman who thought we were being punished and that the punishment was too harsh.  One of the performers, Wana Udobang wrote abouthow the piece brought into focus the ways in which we, as women, place burdens on ourselves and that in the end no one else even acknowledges our work, they stop even noticing our struggles.  She observed that by the end of the walk through town people began to almost ignore us as they went back to their daily lives.

Audience after beauty performance. Image: Soibifaa Dokubo

OKA: Did you notice anything that your audience was doing while watching the performances that you found particularly interesting or even strange?

WNO: beauty was an incredible experience because we were in the middle of Obalende Motor Park.  Hundreds of people passed by during the four hours that we were performing.  They were watching us and we were watching them as intently.  As performers we all spoke about that experience.  We talked about even wanting to film the audience watching us.  It’s an incredible feeling, to be witnessed in this particular way by strangers and to also be in a position to really take in another person’s presence, someone you don’t even know.

OKA: What projects do you have coming up in the future?

WNO: I’m in an exhibition with two other artists (Ruby Onyinyechi Amanze and Nnenna Okore) called ‘No one belongs here more than you‘ which opens at the Centre for Contemporary Art, Lagos this June.  I will show a new video installation as well as documentation of the performance works.  I’m also creating a performance for the opening that draws from the tradition of bowing and prostration.

***

'Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?'

Image: Ema Edosio  

from an email i wrote to another performer a few days after 'Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?'

(saturday, april 20)

your words are so important, changed something in me, opened something.

i have been wanting to write about this performance but my body has felt so exhausted. i know i wrote in my journal but it wasn't enough and i haven't looked back at it again, and my mind keeps returning to two moments (one of fear and one of survival...will write about below). at the same time i felt/feel (as i did with beauty) 'now you can do anything'. and yet i have this strange exhaustion which i hope will pass soon....i imagine it's a combination of continued lack of sleep due to wavering electricity + hot nights + mosquitos. the piece itself was exhausting too...but can i be feeling it only now?

i think you and i talked later that day about doing the performance again (with more people) did that conversation really happen? i know i was in a daze.

your email reminds me of so much i was feeling. i think i mentioned this, but this performance was the first time i felt that i might not be able to do this. i was worried about everyone else. i didn't check my mask's eye holes. i didn't test the weight of the water in my own kegs. i didn't take the time to cut thicker pieces of fabric for myself which i intuitively knew i would need. once we crossed the street i thought, oh fuck, i totally fucked up. this will take an eternity and i will be way behind the others and i may not make it at all. pulling the water kegs by the ankles was intense (i too had that same feeling about the strength of my legs...i knew my legs could carry me and these kegs. after all, i had crawled with water kegs before). but somehow the mask, which made it hard to breathe, and the amount of water really terrified me. i have always relied on the strength of my body. even as a young child i would challenge people to races, including adults. i always knew i was a fast runner. i could trust that strength.

and yet in that beginning moment i doubted so much. i had to remember the words i had spoken upstairs. trust, rest, trust. i learned so much in the first five minutes. walking required my entire body (were we actually even walking? it felt like something else). i had to throw my arms ahead of me in order to garner the force to move. and there were many moments when i lost my balance, it was awkward, it felt so awkward to move this way. the fabric cut quickly into my ankles and i couldn't help but think about slavery, slave ships, it was a momentary flash that i quickly tried to dispel from my vision.

the water kegs bumped into each other. i would pull with all my strength, only to have one keg slide up against the other, momentum lost. in that moment i thought how unnecessary it is to struggle. struggle is a waste of energy, it does not necessarily produce results. it can exhaust us and leave nothing in the end. how ironic. even after all that work i arrived at the finish with one keg completely empty of water. i had hoped it would leak out much sooner. and this was not the keg on my right side that had been leaking so slowly from the beginning. this was the keg on my left side. it remained totally full until the last street. it was heavier that the other one the entire way and it gave me no relief. and yet when i was almost finished with the performance the water completely drained out. that was disatisfying. i had journeyed so far, i should at least have water to show for it. this was a lesson about struggle. 'struggle for what' fela. ah. 'now your fault be that'.

Image: Ema Edosio

(sunday, april 21)

you asked yourself, “am i a masochist?”. i thought about that question, about the relationship of pain to pleasure and what it is about it that makes us feel alive. controlled pain. also, the performance was intimate but i think it was more self-intimacy if that makes sense.

there were even moments when i thought i should wait but where i went into a deep survival mode decision. there were times when i was thinking, if i stop now i won't make it and i must make it, even if the others do not, i must. different from beauty where the physical connection was so absolute, certain.

ALSO, read Wana Udobang's response on her blog

Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?

I created the first version of 'Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?' in 2011 in Lagos. I crawled along the ground with water kegs tied to my ankles. The piece was inspired by the daily task of carrying water at my cousin's house. I observed how this particular work was largely something that me and my female cousins performed. This is not to say that men do not do this task.

The performance on April 18 built upon this work but was performed with a group of women walking through the streets of Lagos, again hauling water kegs. While the piece poses questions about the work of women, it is also about labor and the politics of change. How much is enough? What is the tipping point in a society where people struggle to meet basic needs? When do people have an opportunity to rest, reflect, envision, imagine, and enact another way of being? I am particularly interested in the role of women in these dialogues.

The costumes refer to traditional masquerades but with an Afrofuturisic touch. Here, I am thinking about the Egungun masquerade which women are not allowed to perform. Masquerades are quite powerful for both community and performer. The masked dancer is allowed to go anywhere; they are protected. People are not allowed to even touch them. There are men who holds sticks, the cane men (and use them) if you attempt to get too close. 'Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?' draws from this tradition by allowing women to occupy a sacred and dynamic space within the public environment. But in this case, there is a constant movement between or perhaps confusion about the sacred and the profane as we perform the arduous (if not impossible) task of hauling water kegs through the city.

beauty

Photo: Ema Edosio

(saturday, april 13)

my friend Lyndon gave me a journal for my trip to nigeria. on the inside cover he wrote: create fearlessly, love openly, make sacred spaces everywhere. all this intersects with jelili's 'egungun method'. egungun may go anywhere. there is no place egungun isn't allowed to be. this is critical. nicole was here this week. she said she had been thinking about the ulay and marina performance piece, relation in time, 1977. we began discussing possibilities for here in lagos. women with hair braided behind their backs. connected. public space. 4 hours. obalende.

later in the week we are talking and nicole speaks about wanting the braiding to be part of the piece itself. so it happens, april 11, thursday, obalende motor park. everything flows when there is trust and action. i meet tope the day before the performance. she does nails and eyelashes under the bridge. i explain the project and she says she will gather the women to do the hair. we show up on thursday (i bring the hair) and meet the women. they seem excited about the piece but are not happy about standing in the sun to braid. we explain that we are artists and the performance has to happen in this place. just before we go to the place near the brt buses, one woman adamantly asks for more money. she is annoyed. i speak with the head woman who is dressed in this lovely pink. she is gorgeous and friendly. i agree to pay more. they set up the chairs. we are side by side for the braiding that begins at 2p.

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

the order of the chairs: deola ruby coco veronny wura

people are watching us already. the braiding hurts. the women are not gentle but they say “sorry”. veronny tells me how one woman says (in igbo or yoruba) that she's lucky she got veronny because it's only about 6 braids. my woman isn't happy because my hair is very slippery. nicole later tells me that it hurts her head a lot. we are both tenderheaded and the women braiding hair are ripping her hair as they go. i am thinking it will feel so much better when we get to stand. i can't wait. even before we are finished braiding a group of men (city workers/lagos state something) come over. they want money. they speak about how we should have taken permission to be in this place. i have already given connor money to 'settle' them if need be. they are harassing the women. i stand to speak with them but they aren't even very interested in what i have to say. veronny is amazing. at some point soon after this ruckus she says, “no, i wouldn't pay them anything!” she is always so clear and vocal. “we are artists. we have a right to be in this place for artistic expression!”

these words give me more strength. i know that public space is always contested here. everyone wants to get paid. connor comes over and asks how much i am willing to part with? he says they want 10,000 naira. i have only given him 2k. after veronny speaks i tell him “nothing, do not give them anything.” i trust this will work out and that we have a presence equal or greater to that of the men who want a bribe.

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

we started at 2p and by 3p we are finished with the braiding. while getting our hair made, my favorite moments are:

(1) two girls are watching us. blue checked school uniforms. they are 7 or 8 years old. one has her arm wrapped around the shoulder and neck of the other. they stare from about ten feet away. they are in a deep discussion about what they are seeing.

(2) a group of schoolgirls in blues and skyblues gathers to our left. on the pile of small stones. there are about 15 of them, 7-10 years old, 6 feet away. they watch and discuss for quite a long time. they give us energy.

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

it is time for the connecting to happen. our chairs are put into a circle and the women begin attaching our braids. when it is time to stand my neck is uncomfortablely hyperextended. i wonder if they have connected us too closely. we adjust. it is uncomfortable. i will settle into the discomfort and eventually the pain. we are five but i can only communicate with the two right next to me. deola to my left and veronny to my right. i start by facing the radio tower direction. veronny says, “wow, this is powerful”. around 4pm during the piece she asks if we can finish early. i am thinking 'no way'. i tell her to go inside her mind. we have agreed ahead of time to make small rotations in order to adjust perspective, move a bit and also to give breaks from the direct sunlight. we speak only a bit about it. “do you need to move?” we grab hands and slowly rotate 1/5^th of the way around.

veronny speaks to me and nicole. she is vocal about the pain and exhaustion. i feel responsible but i am only one of five. i don't ultimately have the power to stop the piece even if i wanted to. her words begin to make the exhaustion worse. i tell her to be quiet, to try that out. we are perhaps pissing each other off. i go into my mind. at around 4:15/4:30 i am looking between the radio tower and the brt buses. i am beyond pain and fatigue. my eyes are no longer people watching. they are taking in everything and nothing. i am this piece, these 5 women, i am these artists, i know in this moment, post-pain, that i can go on forever. it is like running, my 3 mile mark, now i can go all day. it's decided. my neck is still being pulled back by the weight of the hair. i adjust in small shifts. it is painful. i try to make myself more comfortable, knowing that perhaps i will make one of my sisters more uncomfortable. i can't see them or talk to check in. i have to trust that they will take care of themselves.

i see my sister and brothers arrive in the audience. and efiom burns. it gives me such strength to see familiar faces. they are witnesses to this. to my life. to our presence. they will remember this one day and i can go to them for the story if i need to confirm it, just to know that it happened.

i don't want to write about the australian guy who was videotaping because that is not an important part of the story. and it is not what i want to focus on, though if i let myself his presence will leave a bitter taste in my mouth. he is filming with a huge mic and windscreen. at first i am happy to see more cameras--the archive of all of this is so important. but he doesn't respect the piece itself. he asks to interview me. he is excited. i say, “at 6pm i will talk to you.” he is up in our faces with his camera. unlike ema and soibifaa, he does not respect the power of the piece. at one point he says, “i don't know about you guys, but i'm having a great time.” no more white people archiving (i did not invite him by the way). connor tells me how the meaning of the piece changes with his own presence as a white man. and also this australian dude. people think it is a shoot for an advertisement. this is good information. but connor also tells me how one gentleman says, in yoruba that “this is ours” meaning “this is for us nigerians, these artists speak to us.” this is more important.

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

after the performance olu translates as i speak with a yoruba woman about the meaning of the piece.

i ask a schoolgirl what she thinks. we have a lovely conversation.

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

the evil men ask for money again when the performance is over. 100,000 naira. i am prepared to give 5k max though first i want to know what for. 100,000 is such a ridiculous request--pay us men in uniforms for your creative presence in this public space. this is rubbish. when he asks for 100k a switch goes off in my head. we have been at this performance for 4 hours. we have stood in the nigerian sun for 3 hours. we are beyond exhaustion and i know nothing can touch us now. i feel a calm, clear fury.

“100,000 for what? i will not give you one penny!” the anger rushes through my entire body. “i am nigerian! we are artists. we have a right to be here and express ourselves!”

me and 100,000naira man       Photo: Soibifaa Dokubo

i refuse to give even one cent. i am furious. crowds gather. more uniformed men emerge. soibifaa, the photographer, isn't taking any of this either. he is taller than all of them. he hands his camera to olu (i think). he is beyond ready. people must express themselves. and there are lines that get crossed. i have seen tons of loud arguments here in lagos. people must express their anger. the only actual fight i have seen was among schoolgirls. we must leave this place. we go to freedom park. it is difficult pulling the guys out of the confrontation. i want us all to be safe. i trust olu and soibifaa. i am also angry because i want them to leave this argument and come drink beer. i trust that the performance will not end badly. we take care of each other. nothing can touch us now.

***

beauty

beauty
Thursday, April 11, 2013 
2-6:00pm, Obalende Motor Park 
Lagos, Nigeria

Performers: Ruby Amanze, Deola Gold, Veronny Odili, Wura-Natasha Ogunji, Nicole Vlado

Conceived by Nicole Vlado and Wura-Natasha Ogunji, beauty explored the relationships that women have to each other and to their hair. The performers had their hair braided beginning at 2:00pm in this public transportation plaza and then stood with their hair connected until 6:00pm.

This work was conceptualized during Vlado's first visit to Lagos and was partly inspired by the 1977 performance Relation in Time by Marina Abramovic and Ulay.

listen while reading

The rain here is incredible. I noticed the darkening sky and cool air just in time to pull my clothing from the line. I arrived in Lagos a week ago and it has been so, so lovely. This past weekend I saw Call me Kuchu as part of the Lights, Camera, Africa! Film festival. It's a documentary about the LGBTI movement, activists in Uganda. “Amazing and devastating” as Ernest Hardy describes. Powerful to see a film about queerness while in Lagos.

After the film there was a short discussion with filmmaker/writer/photographer Femi Odugbemi and Mahen Bonetti, Executive Director of NY's African Film Festival, about the state and future of African film. Bonetti talked about the 'fight for the image of Africa' which has me thinking about archives. Odugbemi described how during Nigeria's celebration of fifty years of independence in 2010 the same 5 minutes of BBC footage was shown (footage which had to be purchased at a great price from the BBC). We don't have these kind of film archives in Nigeria. I am thinking about the nature and necessity of archives. Books, photographs, audio is so critical to remembering and claiming place, not just place in the physical sense of home or nation-state, but one's place in the world. An archive shows us that we have a place in the world not delineated by identity; we have a place because we witness stories that expand our notion of who we are or may become in the world.

Bonetti mentioned the importance of the recently-discovered Russian film archives of 'Africa'. Apparently, the Scandinavians have 'African' archives too. I scoured the interwebs for this footage.  Alas, I believe she was referring to a film by Alexandr Markov called Our Africa: Thousands of Kilometres of Soviet Film. Despite the obvious failings of the paternalistic title, I look forward to seeing this work if/when it plays in Lagos.  The trailer looks beautiful.

I want a million stories about one place. So to add to this endeavor...

Last Friday, September 28, my new housemate moves (a Fulbrighter researching alternatives to the juvenile justice system in Lagos...Wow!). She invites me to a party after the film festival opening. Her three guy friends pick us up around eleven and we begin the dark, bumpy journey through the streets of Yaba (my new neighborhood!). Though initially cautious (people warn not to go out after dark) I am v excited for my first Lagosian party.  Oh la la!  The guys in the car are notably quiet and about twenty minutes into the journey we slow in front of a church. Is this what she meant by party?!

The car keeps moving and we continue down the road and eventually park. We get out and are led through a large, winding house, into and out of a kitchen--where Auntie's are cooking over huge pots of vegetables, meat and rice--then up several flights of stairs. I hear my roommate ask one of the guys, “So this is your brother's bachelor party?”

(wt%$&*?!)

Of course it was amazing. The party started on the roof where we could see an incredible lightning storm in the distance, and a full moon directly above us. At some point it began raining so we all rushed into the garage and I danced my booty off until past 5am. Then home, safe and sound, but not before I received the complement of a lifetime.

guy: Are you Yoruba?

me: Yes.

guy: I could tell by the way you dance.

And thus the bar, club, party, dance floor becomes an important site for this year's research and archive.

seas and skies of West Africa

Lagos! I love this place, it feels like home, like I am of it, in it. It is smokey and full—from when I step off the plane I can smell salt fish, palm oil and fires. And incessant horn honking accompanies all public movements. The crossing of streets is not to be taken for granted. As I left the Centre for Contemporary Art today, I stepped across the briefly empty street only to hear a shriek (mine?!) as the passenger on a motorcycle gently shoved my elbow away. (Please don't tell my Auntie.) It is amazing to see young school children navigate these roads. Lagos is a dance intensive of the highest order.  And so it begins...

Transatlantic

in the neighborhood of Cabo Verde

approaching West Africa

Senegal

Mali

Burkina Faso

Ghana

Togo

Benin

Approaching Lagos

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