'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.

Performance Workshop Next Week!

Lagos Market. Today I am “Brazil!” “Customer, Customer!” “Madame!” “Oyibo!”

The market today was amazing!!!! I walked all around it. People say it's big. It is but you can easily move through it and I think I can map it. I have been staring at the Great Mosque in the photographs I took from my first visit here. In person it is truly gorgeous. I want to take out my camera but I resist. I spend most of my time in the Ankara market (where I am drawn to the outer space designs, fabrics for the Afro-future?!). There is the market that sells fabric for trousers, the red bead market, and the place where I filmed about a month ago which is at an intersection, a crossroads which mysteriously has open, still spaces, meaning there are many places to perform! This includes lots of raised areas that are virtually empty. And even the street of the Ankara market is quite clear until the late afternoon with little, if any cars, so many possibilities.  Performing in Lagos makes me think about David Hammons selling snow in New York City. And commerce. There are so many possibilities. Free services? The selling of what? And then something ephemeral. The slowing down of actions which tends to be noticed visually or just by virtue of the fact that stillness interrupts the flow.

On the way to catch my bus home an older woman pushes me out of the road, saving both of us from a speeding police truck. Like all movement in Lagos, this, too, feels strangely choreographed.

studies in choreography for the camera

Studies in Choreography for the Camera...after Maya Deren

On Lagos Island, between Jankara Market and Bead Market.

muddy market with sugarcane

Sunday at Bar Beach

my first bus ride by myself!

late night road food

"We will be seen and we will be heard" --Kelly Gabron

Wura Comfort Akinpalu Morakinyo Ogunji

I am working on a performance which is based on the relationship between my Nigerian grandparents, Gilbert and Wura. It was recently confirmed that my grandfather's family was Muslim, while my grandmother's was Christian. My grandfather converted to Christianity and became a pastor which led him to travel all over Nigeria--Kano, Kaduna, Zaria. The meta-narrative of this performance is about Muslim-Christian relationships set against the backdrop of current religious conflicts in this nation (of Nigeria). As I develop the piece, however, I am struck by the fact that in telling that particular story I am forgetting about what came before, what is so easy to forget: Islam and Christianity, two colonizing religions, did not always exist. There was a time when they didn't exist at all. Imagine that world.

I am thinking about the conditions that made it possible for my grandparents to meet, come together, marry, have children. Attraction, love, longing, politics, family?  Roads crossed.  While this lineage intersects with Islam and Christianity it goes back further. How do I account for what came before? I find myself obsessively looking for archival film footage of a time before moving pictures even existed, so I'll settle for anything right now which includes a smattering of anthropological films and newsreels with condescending overdubs.

The pinhole camera is the great ancestor to photography and film. I have long been entranced by the idea that our people long ago watched moving images. Why wouldn't they? Light entering between leaves in the forest, projecting the movement of clouds overhead; a hole in the wall of a shelter or home reflects the upsidedown dance of people walking and talking just outside.  

Chronicles of a Lying Spirit by Kelly Gabron (a film by Cauleen Smith)

I recall Cauleen Smith's 'Chronicles of a Dying Spirit'. This film is a brilliant portrait of a girl, no, an artist making herself, recalling history, speaking about the moving image, making film. The story changes, repeats, and leaves a stunning after effect. Wait, I think the title is actually 'Chronicles of a Lying Spirit'. I so strongly remember the words of this spirit, girl, woman, 'I decided I'll just have to make my own damn films.'  That is how I remember it.

I am working on a performance—a film?—about the history of my grandparents, about their love story, about the history of Nigeria, before it was even Nigeria, about the history of colonizing religions like Islam and Christianity, about what we believed before (and now), about our relationship to the land and each other, about the history of the universe, this universe, about the moving image before film.  

the point where you perceive that you are

(today's writing is from an email to a friend)

This place is amazing. It welcomes me in deep, perhaps unexpected ways.  It's a sense of belonging that I also feel in San Francisco but of course much deeper here, a longer connection though at the same time so recent.  I spent last weekend with my family--sister and brothers--and it was quite lovely.  I miss them today, the constant company and laughter is really quite amazing.  It's so interesting to feel like such a person of solitude and independence and at the same time like I feel much energy from being around other people.  It is a strange realization, to know my own solitude and ability to be alone and to feel longing of company.  I feel so lucky to be in this flat.  It is spacious and my room is sunny and we are around a courtyard (of sorts) so it feels totally peaceful to come home and do work when I need to, or when I feel I've had enough of these moving, breathing, muddy streets.

The ideas are pouring out of my head and heart and I am excited for what's to come.  People say that life is art here but I also believe that there is another place for art.  That art allows us to remove from the everyday (even when life and art are so connected).  Art is always something more, something just outside, on the edge.  I have gone dancing a few times and feel (surprisingly so) that this is where I must spend much of my time.  Dancing all night at a bachelor party (one of 3 women there) was the most incredible experience.  I would normally (in the US) feel so unsafe at a party with all men drinking, etc.  It was truly magical.  To feel completely free in my body and protected, taken care of, sexy, moving, awkward and at the same time absolutely perfect.  Such a gift.  I went with my housemate who is a fulbrighter.  She's a white jewish girl--not important except for the fact that i felt/realized it was not important...my u.s. race, racial, racist experiences and defenses come down in lovely ways.  How do we fully escape the experience of racism in order to be more fully human ourselves while also acknowledging what is real in the world?  My housemate requested a dancehall song from the dj in the midst of some fast moving music; there was a pause from the crowd packed into the garage, a brief silent moment at the party when the music unexpectedly changes, and then an almost audible sound of joy as we immediately shifted our moves to match the rhythm.  There is a generosity here that is unparalleled.  

Being mixed, of two cultures, races (so-called) I find myself moving between, around perspectives so much.  I met an artist last night from Abidjan.  She is doing an installation at the CCA and staying here for a few days.  We spoke in English and French.  My very broken French from high school emerged.  It's incredible what the body remembers.  It was kind of a spiritual experience for me talking with her.  She is also mixed (from Cote d'Ivoire and France) and we've had some similar, perhaps parallel realizations about life, energy, destiny, one's path in life.  She was talking about how in high school she realized life is made up of three points: the positive, the negative and the point where you perceive that you are.  And that perception can always change depending on the mind.  Ha! I had this feeling when we were speaking like, are we really here in the room together, or are we floating in space with this imagined architecture of table, chairs, floor, air coming off the fan, generator hum.  She said, Africa is the future of the world, everything is here.  She spoke about being black in France and white in Africa.  I know this word in French, 'Ironie'.   

I am making a list of performances I want to do in Lagos.  This includes:

Walking down the street on stilts

Running down the road blindfolded (from a Guillermo Gomez-Pena exercise)

Flying at the ocean

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

***

coming soon...

new performance work

coming to you live from Cidade de São Salvador da Bahia de Todos os Santos

Yesterday we made a visit to the Museum of Modern Art in Bahia. Time travel slowly. View from the catacombs, which is also the education room(!). Used to be a slave port. And a sugar mill. Didn't feel ghosts strangely enough. The museum is majestic, several galleries, wide open spaces.




Blue and white tile work covers the walls leading to the main gallery. Where is the place of history and remembrance in all of this? I thought of the artist Adriana Varejão whose work brilliantly displays the history of colonization within the beauty of the ceramic work. Her work should live here.

by Adriana Varejão

There is also a restaurant below. Caipirinhas on the patio? The irony does not escape me.



The tracks from the ingenio (sugar mill) below my feet.

PROGRAM NOTES: GLOSSOLALIA 5.0 @ The Kitchen

from Cauleen Smith's PROGRAM NOTES: GLOSSOLALIA 5.0 @ The Kitchen

SEE full program notes here.

My Father and I Dance In Outer Space (2011)

First Encounter: Sixteen years ago in West Oakland On the set of Drylongso. Subsequent Viewing Pattern: I am compelled to screen an Ogunji video every seven months or so.

With My Father and I Dance In Outer Space, Wura-Natasha Ogunji has deepened and refined her endurance performance videos by stripping away everything that we don’t need, and providing us with everything we do need to feel unstable, uncertain, enthralled, and undone. The spirit dancer presents herself, and then proceeds to make a barren landscape with her footprints, moisten it with her sweat and breath. Based on my experience with the Malibu State Park Rangers, the intensity of the Ogunji Spirit’s sustained levitations will certainly aerate that yellow soil. If we return to this site in one month’s time, the Ogunji Figure may not be there, but I am certain, that scented chaparral shrubs, and desert cacti will. Rather than frame and validate the video’s signifiers enjoying direct linkage to Yoruban ritual and Ogunji’s heritage, the artist opens the video to grander possibilities and indeed extends her speculations beyond terrestrial identity into the speculative realm of the cosmological. The discomfort we feel as we sympathetically ache with the strain of Ogunji’s gorgeously choreographed performance is diminished by her application of distance and time. The figure’s placement in the landscape tells us one ting about this gesture while the sky above her tells us another all together. Long Memory. Clouds sweep over Ogunji faster than we can comprehend just as my Malibu clouds confounded my aperture many times over the course of an afternoon of building an inverted maypole and tearing it apart. The Ogunji Spirit is a regenerative force that finally stops because the work is done, not because its powers are exhausted. Just as I was happy to have Wura on my set building the delicate readymades that grace the finale of Drylongso, I am happy to have her videos with me now: Ogunji’s work never fails celebrate and test the confounding tension between the quotidian and the magical.

stills from new performance 'sweep'