Thursday, 4 December 2014

Writing to make sense of the world

I was reading on what forgiving a person means, on how I can truly forgive and move on. Why would you do this you ask? Because, I have more often been the one to ask for forgives, growing up my life has sometimes become riddled in events which have put me in a place were other people have been hurt by my actions. This was not a bad thing entirely, asking for forgiveness, was something that once I got the hang of, I understood what the true implications of it is and furthermore to do sincerely, to look at your own actions and feel remorse, to have that drive to get up and ask for a second chance.To know that while I may have hurt other people, I had good intentions, although these don't always pan out. To then look at someone in the eyes, and say, I am sorry. Once I understood this,   I began thinking more about how to prevent having to be in this situation and went through making amends to truly treasuring that second chance you are given. To be given a second chance is a beautiful thing. This also set a mark for future relationships, where I am aware that we are human and I could hurt someone. Ironically, once I learned the importance of an apology, I needed to make to make less of them. Carefully treating people with love and commitment. Then yesterday night, after a difficult conversation, I heard the words, I am sorry and it was for me. This was strangely unexpected, the word sorry spread through my body like fire and tears rushed to my eyes, I was at the other end of the spectrum this time, and for the first time in my life, I felt the pain of an apology. I am sorry, I was wrong, it was selfish of me. Words that echoed in me, still do, now as I write this. My eyes, feel like a damp holding a big gush of water, I want to scream and shout. But I am not angry, the apology swept the anger away. An apology has made the suffering real, what I felt, was real. Sorry is a companion during a difficult time, something you can hold on to.






The words you were not expecting

The pain you thought you had to deal with alone

Measures you took

Decisions you made

 

Made you

You chose who to be 

To be free from the  place where you thought you were trapped

 

When who you were made no sense

When you were so alone

 

Alone with your thoughts

And your pain and love

 

You struggled with yourself

your years, your life

why?

You asked to the world.

Why did this happen?

How did we get here?

 

Then

 

Sorry, you heard

One night, in darkens

You heard the pain in voice

The desire for change

For a chance to once more

Make things right again


sorry


And you knew it was real

You knew it was true

You knew that the things you believed had happened for sure

And here was you token

In one only word

Sorry.




Sunday, 3 March 2013

An Image of You

I have always been intrigued by portraits of people, because, while almost anyone could for example, take a picture of a person an capture a great portrait, the artist achieves this by consciously applying his or her skill, which grants them the ability or gift even, of seeing the essence of the person and capture this in an image to tell us something about them. It is this three way dialogue between the sitter, the artist and the viewer which I find intriguingly complex and interesting.

Hence while portraits have been around since creativity itself, which first appears arguably in cave art.  When the pre-historic men and women depicted the world around them inside their living quarters, these can be said to be portraits of their lives, early representations of who these people were. As the notion of the self begins to develop, we seem to become increasingly interested in images of ourselves. Much later, during the Renaissance we see Italian and Dutch portraiture really picks up as genre, the stakes of portraiture were raised and primarily reserved for social elites, this were now images made to denote power and social stance.

Today while portraits of powerful and "important" members of society are still increasingly more likely to enter our most prestigious institutions and hang there for many years,  more "common" members of society have also had their chance to be celebrated trough the artistic vision of painters and photographers, who deem these ch characters recognition.

Below I gathered a small collection of my three favourite photographers, Don McCullin, Steve McCurry and John Keny, these portraits work through signifiers to give us a short biography about the person that we looking at. These works allow us to recognize culture traits and emotions about the characters we are seeing. I can think of a few things which are so profoundly moving.
 
Steve McCurry "Pul i Khumri, Afghanistan"


Portraits from Africa by John Kenny

By Steve McCurry


Don McCullin "Shell Shocked Soldier"


Portraits from Africa by John Kenny


Sunday, 13 May 2012

The Fall of the Rebellious Angels


The Fall of the Rebellious Angels[1] (1554) Frans Floris (1517–1570)

On entering the Cathedral of Our Lady in Antwerp I was struck by this (see above) painting, its energy is truly captivating and also quite frightening, I knew this work would be a challenge. Contemplating it appeared as if the battle was unfolding before me.

Frans has demonstrates a strong 15C Renaissance influence and he would have been familiar with Michael Angelos work in the 16th Chapel as the bodies in this work bear some resemblance to Michael Angelos nudes, but his treatment of this subject offers us a captivating narrative.

Floris has created a cycle, our eye travels across and around the canvas guided by the events that are taking in the battle, we see the moment of fight but also what is about to happen. You can make your way across the painting many times each focusing on new details and becoming more involved within the story with new revelations with in the image, it is full of details, expressions and movement.


What captivated me was the appearance of the subjects and how "good" and "rebel" angels how they are engaged in a rather ferocious fight, yet the good angels appear to be fighting gracefully and wining as they crush the rebels almost effortlessly. I am impressed by the contours of the bodies and how they are entangled, the treatment of the work seems to be successfully life like, this painting has been executed with great skill appearing to mesmerise with all the action which it encompasses.


If you allow your eye to wonder the battle seems to gain life and there is an illusion of movement with in the painting, this to me represents the work of a great master. I hope that you will enjoy it too. My favorite point of reference is the angel of the left corner which has lifted his sword to cut the dragons tail, through out this painting is full of moments of furor which are imminent, engaging us in expectation and excitement.


More works by Floris can be found here: http://www.all-art.org/DICTIONARY_of_Art/f/floris1.htm

Saturday, 17 March 2012

An Al Dente Experience.

Dear Blog,
"you could be happy or you could be right" could this be the best advice to cooking pasta? -  This is my story of how today I waited 20mins for freshly (in front of you) made and cut pasta at the food market.
It sounded as if - when you put the pasta in boiling water, the pasta then sinks, after some moments it raises to the top and then it’s ready to mix in your sauce/s in the pan, you then let cook for some seconds and serve it.
As the water would not boil, every time the cook put the pasta in the sauce pan, we saw it turn back to dough! I was cold and standing next to water, I didn’t feel much heat either. He offered me it free at one point - I was keen to eat it as it started drizzling rain.
I gave him a 3rd chance, he admitted he was embarrassed, I told him – “don’t worry about getting it wrong” he replied “it’s kind of my job to get it right” I agreed in silence.
So again he made the pasta and this time it worked! – It was fabulously tasty with three chesses and spicy tomato sauce.
Now the cook was right and we both were happy. Which means before you can be happy you have to be right – but in any case you can be both happy and right.
Isis

Saturday, 3 March 2012

Self Portrait with Death, by Arnold Bocklin

A Happy Poem

I would write about being alone,


About, finding yourself and or falling apart.


Making mistakes and starting again.


At some point, I stopped.


Today,


I sat at my desk


And I very seriously thought -


Where is my pain?


I must need to write it?


Put it on paper


Read it.


Then!


I realised....


I sat, and I thought and then


I saw that, I am no longer alone.


There was nothing to write,


No feelings came.


No one is there.


Alone is not there.


Isis



Friday, 2 March 2012

clockwork for dummies

tick tock                        
pain

                                            she IS 

a) FREE                             
                       

     not until THE END


                                                                              LOOSE       her     HEAD   IMPLODES IN THE DARKNESS

they

Care
                        too
much 
or
   too
          little

TO

make


little

                                                                                  DIFFERENCE.

ALONE IS THE END.

Monday, 16 January 2012

Anne Frank -



This new year David, my boyfriend, and I went to Amsterdam. On our last day we had planed to wake up at 8am and visit Anne Franks House at 9am and Rembrandt's House at 11:30am before arriving at the station for our train at 15:15. On the day and we only managed to leave the Hotel at 11:40am that morning, it was a very inhospitable day, rain and wind that we could feel flowing under our clothes as we walked in the street - but we fought it through  and left our beautiful room still optimist to carry out our plans.

As we approached the first thing I saw was the bronze statue on the street before we turned into the canal where her house stands. People were taking pictures of her, with her all in high spirits like Anne would have been with her friends in the years leading up to 1942.




When we turned the corner we saw the queue that we had not budgeted time for, it went on for at least 100 metres. We looked up at the house and saw people happily enjoying coffee, we later found out that we  had both being a little estranged by this unexpected development. The queue was to be expected I suppose, but the coffee shop? it seemed like a whipping from Capitalism and Consumerism. 

David grabbed my hand and we crossed the road to see the houses facade, part of the building had been renovated with glass. We could not see much or appreciate the house itself without going inside.


As we walked off, I looked around at our surroundings, the land under my feet and realised that, this landscape, the road in which I stood -  Anne would have known and it would have been part of regular routine. I looked up at Westmarkt Church  on the square and I felt I had established the connection I wanted with Anne, 62 years later I had come to visit her and we had meet, separated by time but not space we stood in the same place. We tried to imagine the Nazis marching and driving around.

Later as we walked away, David asked me if I had read her diary and with some regret I replied - no, .. not yet.



When we arrived back to London, we both went straight to work. The day after I was reading on what the Holocaust meant for children on my computer,.Whenever I read about the Holocaust I grow afraid, I am absorbed in lectures yet in fear. Suddenly, I looked up and saw David coming towards me - of course he was surprised - last thing he wanted was to scare me, but it was not him - I had been in back in time. He approached me and put Anne Franks Diary on my desk.

Having read it now, almost three weeks since we have been back - I want to write down some of my favorite passages from her diary.  


'Nearly every morning I go to the attic to blow the stuffy air out of my lungs, from my favourite spot on the floor I look up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little raindrops shine, appearing like silver, and at the seagulls and other birds as they glide on the wind...As long as this exists, I thought, and I may live to see it, this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts I cannot be unhappy.'

'Laziness may appear attractive, but work gives satisfaction.'


I'm not sorry; memories mean more to me than dresses."

'In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.'

'How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.'

'Parents can only advise their children or point them in the right direction. Ultimately people shape their own characters.'

'Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.'

'Who would ever think that so much went on in the soul of a young girl?'

'Isnt' it  a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.'

'In spite of everything that has happened, I still believe that people are really good at heart.'

'It is utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquillity will return once more.'

'I go into ecstasies every time I see the naked figure of a woman, such as Venus, for example. It strikes me as so wonderful and exquisite that I have difficulty in stopping the tears rolling down my cheeks.'





Below are pictures of Amsterdam during the War. This is the context in which she wrote. This is the landscape outside of her walls, where she hid in what she calls "the secret annex" Anne also dreamed of writing a novel after the war and considers publishing her diary as a novel, under that title. Anne wrote every day, describing her dreams, hopes and feelings. 






Saturday, 14 January 2012

Symphony number 9


Symphony number 9 is a Collection of images I have gathered from various places. I decided to save them over time, now I want to  create a melody with each sequence.

Caution
If you don't like my symphony, please listen to Beethovens' version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAOTCtW9v0M it's nothing like mine, i simply liked title and repropertied it. the word symphony send vibrations  through my entire body.

this is very simple -  all you have to do is hear the way that you feel. these images speak an idiom of symbols it works by feeling a short of chemical reactions, like love but not love in this case, i enjoy looking at them. they are challenging me. they are firing blank questions, sending messages. these silent pictures demand understanding. they work with your brain as it tries to make sense of the external world,  we learn we hear.

the main thing is that - there are no rules, censorship is something that exists outside of your mind. it does not belong to you.












Thursday, 26 May 2011

Ebony Tree

Part One

In a room not far from the place she once called home, she laid alone in her bed. The white walls around her revealed the frames of  pictures that once hang, the  lighter yellow with brown the borders of a time that had left  behind, time had tainted all vibrancy - the photos depicting embraces and protective love now living real in memories, no longer visible, no sounds. She laid and said nothing, her lips still sealed.

Still holding the box given to her before departure, in her hands she held it through the years, unopened. The key had been lost while she walked back from the fence where she had waved goodbye - she had stood as watching the horse gallop away from her sight. When the snow had come the in the night it was impossible to look for it so she accepted it gone.

Sometimes while she sat at the window, she searched in grass with her eyes, pretending to her mind she was only looking around. But deep within she longed to find the key she had lost, too weak to walk she surrounded to time.

Her hair grew white and now reaching the floor in perfect order, she delicately brushes it with an ivory comb, made from a great African elephant shot down while the king leisurely hunted with his new wife.  In the mornings before she continues to wait, after leaving the freedom offered by her dreams she recalls a time when she was much happier. Her twinkling eyes tell many stories which now remain engraved on her skin - a perfect map of her life. 


As if by magic that time had stopped yet continued to pass. Lost in thoughts she remains, deep in her soul she hides the best that life once so kindly had given her, living of a past she dared not let go or else it would be lost forever... fall into the darkness of the infinite of things left behind.. and then what would be left of her?


Through the years she observed, the hills far beyond and the changing of seasons adoring the landscape, the trees as they shed their leaves and the wind blew them away, sometimes gently others with fury - lifted them them off the ground and threw them into an air dance of Autumn.




She slowly turned her head and placed her hand in her chest, sighed and rose from her bed. She walked toward the window and sat on the wooden chair next to the fire. She was cold. The unchanged Autumn  was here again. Far into the horizon she set her gaze.


***********





          



Tuesday, 15 February 2011

Thinking back on Solitude

I have wanted to write this piece for a while, but unsure of what approach to take, the more I think the more I am surprised at the unwritten rules of emotion and control we set upon ourselves. Every one has their own way and advice - how much to give, hide, take away all in order to achieve some sort of a perfect harmony, the thing is – how can you create harmony if you are constantly calculating your feelings?.  This article is about honesty, because there is no other truth than the one that lives inside of you.
Yesterday morning, on my way to work I talked with my neighbour, this is a woman who in her 30’s grows more beautiful everyday. But after spending the last four years with an on and off dead end boyfriend, playing weird games she tells me- “I am sick of men”  she is sick of the relationship she has had. “He” is not all men. I know this because this is the same woman who once told me she wanted to make love to the father of her children, the hopes are there but the clarity and honesty are blurred.
Not long ago a facebook acquaintance posted a status saying something like “The world is full of little boys and there are not enough men” and I was startled at the amount of thumbs up that response got! - to which I replied “you needed to be a woman to find a man” this was an offer for her to evaluate her approach, first she was furious at my response, understandable. But when the dust settled, she thanked me for my honesty and told me about the horrible experience she had had. All I could say was, it is impossible to continue to follow one path and expect different results, “you think of all men as immature you will have eyes only for immature men and that it is not very mature on your part”.
Sometimes taking a step back allows time for ourselves to see what we are doing, in this era it seems we are always in a rush, it is important to remember that love does not wear a watch. We have to evaluate our actions against our results to achieve the outcome we want. And above all, do not blame all others for the bad choices you make.
For example, if you lived in the middle of nowhere and your tank was empty but you could walk to the nearest petrol station which is an hour away on foot, yet, you choose to not move and complain instead that you can’t travel with your car anywhere. Eventually you become a complainer and die of starvation a slow process which take longer than the hour necessary which holds your solution. If you don’t make an effort when the answer it is right in front of you, you become an alternative person, denying yourself of mobility.
If you don’t exercise your true self by allowing it the expression it craves, and that like anything worth having takes courage and effort, it will become dormant and you might not think it but, it will weigh you down, making you feel heavy and uncorfortable.
Misery loves company; hence you will be surrounded by others who feel the same way and your approach will seem justified. Do not be afraid to let go of anything that is holding you back or not letting you grow. Letting go makes you stronger and it also allows room for new life. Women who constantly have nothing to tell me but their miss adventures with men, tire me out, drain me emotionally; I can’t imagine how they must be feeling.
We must rid and forgive ourselves of grudges but before we can do this we have to understand our errors, move forward and taking with you tools for more progress, be free from the prisons on your mind, get rid of those prisons, the world is challenging enough for you to make it even more uphill.
Take time to get to know yourself, write down what you want, short term and long term, this will hard but do it – let your heart splatter ink onto a paper, shut down the external word and listen to yourself - there is nothing more nutritive than freedom of expression.
Don’t be guided by media or magazines, they don’t have answers any more than you do. Embrace solitude, believe in who you are, if you listen carefully, you will hear you intuition talking. If you chose not to listen you will be become detached from your centre and may settle for anything you can grab on to, because you need something but don’t know what it is. This will be the most painful heartaches you will ever have, the ones that seem never ending - unable to find neither source nor a cure.
Take chances and risks, open your heart but also be your own doctor and healer, don’t be ignorant or deny your emotions – it is a draining road to take, this is all part of living and as inevitable as death, do not limit your potential - do not stand in the way of your dreams. Once you are your own friend, things seem to matter less, your own support in any circumstance will give you the courage and strength necessary to achieve what you want, and you are responsible for your happiness, no one else.
You can predict how long a relationship will last less than you put pressure on it to be perfect, but you can be honest with yourself and this way, never settle for less than you have decided you deserve, in whatever journey you chose to embark. Be safe in the knowledge that you are doing no wrong.
Live with no regrets by doing what your heart desires, because in the end, when you are on your way out of this world all you have to take with you are memories, let those be ones you are satisfied with.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Shaping Cultural Identity

This morning I sat down in the tube and next to me I saw a left over from the Guardian, the Education section had been dashed aside and left behind about to turn into trash. I looked at it and thought that maybe I'd find something more interesting in there than I would if I stared at the sleepy, grumpy faces of Monday passengers. I picked it up and the front page head line sounded quite relevant to my current theme of discussion  "Know your history, know your cultural identity" great! I thought, identity is being discussed in schools. Teachers are encouraging children to know, value and embrace their cultures, this way helping to shape their identity. It had not become clear to me then that "your" in the title was giving every child from every country and nation studying in England, a British Culture as means of identification.

The article debates whether children should leave school with a  chronological account of significant historical dates of "Our Island History" this idea on the surface sounds practical, we are all living and sharing this Island. Mike Baker speaks about his own experience in school and history admitting he has been left with a "maze" of knowledge and describes the teaching method as  "narrow and unrelated" personally, I can relate to that statement - I am ashamed to say I lack a good grasp of the narrative history of the British Isles.

Then there is a an intersting debate which follows about the balance of factual and practical knowledge students should have in contrast with what the curriculum requires. He seems to be supporting the idea that the teaching of History should go much further than just memorizing facts but develop source analyses skills in young people.

I am now over half way through this article, and I see no relation to the title. There is a proposed chronological structure on a new learning strategy, starting with Roman Britain, the Angles and the Saxons, and the Vikings in year 7 and moving steadily through to the Civil Wars, the Restoration and Victorian Britain in year 9. In year 10 and 11 students could opt for either a full or half GCSE in which they would choose from a selection of key themes in British history as well as topics from modern world history blah blah blah...blah...

This to me sounds fantastic and coherent, I would be very happy if my son learned accordingly. However, what Bake has failed to acknowledge  is that in this way children are not gaining an individual cultural identity. Children from African and Latin American cultures for example - would learn about their heritage through modules on the Age of the Empire and that would be how their knowledge is shaped, similarly  Latin American children would be taught  through the supposed discovery of America by Spaniard Cristobal Colonm, which at 25 I still find very hard to digest.

Although it is common for countries to focus heavily on their own national history as compulsory knowledge, for example France, Finland, Greece and Sweden regard all studying their own countries history it is not a way of fostering an awareness of national cultural identity, the raise of cultural identity is especific to children from different countries it is not a general "your" in the self as proposed in the this title. Unless "you" have willingly made this decision. Frightfully however, this title seems to imply that this decision has already been made for all students as they are taught History in Britain.

It disregards both diversity and inclusion of others cultural identity. One can emigrate to Britain, be born in this Isle without identifying ever through its History, I stand in that line. I am proud to be here, I hold great respect and gratitude to this country for the opportunities from which I benefit, I also  enjoy being part of British Culture- but  would never identify though it.

How History is taught in schools today affect the way foreign children are appreciated and valued by their fellow pupils, also the way they see and value themselves and the history of their country. To learn that your origins were once heavily and inhumanly prosecuted, considered inferior with little other facts or emphasis to balance these painful historical facts, there is a damage being done to the image a child will have formed about their history and self representation.

We can see how this narratives also exist in material culture. High culture is the playground of the rich and  paintings worth sometimes billions of pounds are found depicting people from none western cultures predominantly as slaves or servants. These are hanged in highly regarded institutions or fairs, which are often part of immense buildings reflecting Britain Imperialist Roman Architecture, built to be admired and to be associated with grandeur, strength - sending a message of superiority to other nations. This can cause a child to feel shame or a sense of inferiority. I have chosen below three paintings which to illustrate my point.

What I most love about Art History is how paintings act as time capsules unknowingly capturing aspects of history as it was lived through those that experienced that time. This includes: style, fashion, social and personal practices.  It was not the intention of the painter to present the black women as servants, it was normal practice of the time and a common view of society.

 Dante Gabriel Rossetti,The Beloved, 1865
Edouard Manet, Olympia, 1863
A Homage to Velazquez
Luca Giordano, about 1692-1700

I want t mention briefly "M.R" a friend of mine, she does not wish to be named. This not an issues which is easy to discuss for everyone when speaking from experience, but it is nevertheless a brave step to admit these feelings and talk about about them. Thank you M.R.

This is her story:

M.R grew up in the United States where she went to school in New York, she is from a practicing Jewish family. While M.R was in school she was questioned endlessly about her heritage and religion, these curious minds sometimes then turned into sceptical critics who found her an object of discussion and sometimes mockery. As M.R got older she began to feel ashamed of some aspects from her culture and hid them from others instead giving way to the American way of life, this way she was able to fit in and feel less like "the other". It is precisely this distinction between a dominant culture and the "other" which causes division which can lead to segregation and alienation of  children.

I propose that children should be taught as a compulsory module the history of the country in which they are learning as it is done to date, but they should also take additional modules of their choice of foreign history, from the year 7 onwards, or a module which overviews cultures and countries of the world, not necessarily focusing on popular events. This way by the time they are in year 13 they are not mostly ignorant of others cultures including and practices.

This would mean that from an early age children do not fall victims of myth or stereotypes against others of even worst, themselves and are included and valued. Teachers should be especially trained to encourage acceptance and integration where all ca coexist and at the same time respect others freedom to be different.

NOTE:
I am aware that I have probably taken the title "Know your history, know your cultural identity" a bit further than it was intended.  But it is these type of comment is what shapes peoples way of thinking and expectations. As a journalist of the Guardian Newspaper, I would expect Mike Baker to know how to use language in a more inclusive way.

Thursday, 13 January 2011

IDENTITY ***(ONGOING)***

Either you have said it yourself, you have heard it from someone or you have wondered about it - the question is - how do children who are born or immigrate to a different country identify themselves. 

I was born in Chile, then moved to Ecuador at the age of five after living there for five years moved to Spain and consecutively five years later to London. I felt I had been part of these cultures and yet I didn't belong to either - often when people ask me where I am from, in my most sincere of reflections I reply - I don't know. I find it tricky to express myself via s single medium.

I've become a diverse character, sometimes described as "wild" or "free" I am not sure what to make of those adjectives. I don't like being labeled. I have chosen to adopt and discard traditions using my intuition and at my own accord. Not fully belonging, is a lonely road to take and for those who dare to take this road there can be exiting times ahead full of mystery and curiosities, but also an inability to relate or feel love or any real attachments that at time can make one feel lonely or vulnerable.

From an early age I became a inwards character, I reflected on my surroundings. This made me very critical of people; I saw how different types had different values and as a little girl I was grew curious that everyone thought their way was the right way, across different cultures and continents. As an adult, at 25 I am still very much confused. To form my identity, I have no common ways or subconscious behavioural patterns previously learnt, rather I have to look at myself every time and feel what choices to make following my own heart beat as guide. This can sometimes be exhausting.

I have never been one to follow norms or crowds, often I find myself simply pondering on the different ways there are to approach a subject. This makes me a hard character to understand. I have the fire of the Latin Blood in my veins, that is for certain.

To look how this issue of cross identity has affected me and others in more detail I will examine my personal life and also that of others, I want to find as well as similarities, contrasts.

I will be meeting with Photographer Dereke Wiafe, who is currently working photographic series "A Lost Child". His previous series include "Waking up Early" and "Borough Kids", over the past year he also lectured at Coventry University.



Dereks account on The Problem of Being

At any moment I take to think of myself as being ‚British‛ or ‚Ghanaian‛, my impressions are fleeting. The thoughts I conjure up are transient, steeped in contradiction and often blur the image of African tradition with Western modernity. For I can one day be the quietly-mannered Fante boy who has an ‘English’ dislike of Palm-nut soup, and the next, be in a hooded sweater listening to Hip Life as I browse the National Gallery. Neither is typical of what might be seen as a traditional son from either country, but they’re perhaps signs of a changing cultural portrait . Yet amidst this change, many second generation youth will ask them the question - ‘am I at home here? Do I belong in this picture of my country?’ For me it’s a question I seek answers to in the pictures I portray: narratives from my imaginary homeland.

Understanding- A Lost Child
I urge you to stay at home


Growing up in London, home was where the portrait of a child’s character and heritage were synonymous with the stories whispered about them; stories where fiction blended into history and fable into sermon. If by day a youngster lost the taste for their mother’s cooking or fashioned their hair after Bob Marley, by night, their newly adopted ways would become material for proverbs that frowning parents would tell on the ills of forsaking tradition. Proverbs for all to hear and in the ol’ Ghanaian custom sigh ‚Oh Obayerafo, Come Home‛. But to which picture of home and national identity was a child of two worlds supposed to fit into? Was it the British, the Ghanaian or neither?

The work here is my reimagining of such stories; a remaking of them into narratives on the romantic promise and uneasy harmonies of cultural hybridity. Tilted ‘Obayerafo’, after the euphemism ‘A Lost Child’ , the narratives appear through an interplay of text and image. In the visual work, a series of large scale photographs are presented where tradition and place become the Other to a group of young British born Ghanaians. Shot in their family homes, each scene recreates an everyday encounter where modernity coexists in an unsure relationship with tradition and subtle gestures seem to unsettle the experience of belonging. Here, as in the folklore of West African story tellers, symbolism takes reign. An atmosphere of muted colours and dimmed light veers attention towards objects that go unnoticed.


Hair, dress and minute details in books and furnishings all become clues that build a picture of place and identity but unfold little. The sitters too play their role. Faces retreat from our gaze into obscurity and bodies are molded after the stillness of African wood figurines. Their poise hints at a condition of being, but direction is uncertain and purpose unclear. In ways, the photograph takes the mantle of narrator, performing these spaces into proverbial tales. They invite the viewer to make sense of tensions between belonging and displacement, tradition and change, abrogation and appropriation and where they become visible in the images.


Written from the viewpoint of a fictional narrator know only as ‚Mr Wiafe‛, text accompanies the photographs playfully informing the work with reference to the difficultly of translating cultural identity and adding humorous insight into the complex relationship the artist has with his Ghanaian and British heritage.