Ijele: Art eJournal of the African World (2002)
ISSN: 1525-447X
A TRANSATLANTIC DIALOGUE?
Ijele: Art eJournal of the African World (2002)ISSN: 1525-447XA TRANSATLANTIC DIALOGUE? |
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Harris, Michael D. Transatlantic Dialogue: Contemporary Art In and Out of Africa. Ackland Art Museum, The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1999, 80 pp., 26 b&w + 25 color illus.
The exhibition, Transatlantic Dialogue, was sponsored by the Ackland Art Museum of the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. After the showing in North Carolina, it traveled to National Museum of African Art of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C.,1 and to the DuSable Museum of African American History, in Chicago.2 This exhibition of paintings and sculptures aimed to illustrate the “cross-fertilization of artistic ideas” between African and African-American artists. The exhibition catalogue contains two essays: the first by the guest curator, Michael D. Harris, Assistant Professor of African and African American Art History at North Carolina, and the second by one of the exhibiting artist in the exhibition, Moyo Okediji, who is also an academic.
The objective of these catalogue essays is to give readers two perspectives of the “dialogue” mentioned in the title: the perspective of the African artists who have emigrated from their respective countries in Africa to other parts of the world; and that of African-American artists who have traveled to specific countries in Africa for fairly extended visits. Following the lead of Harris, we shall call the first group the “expatriate” and the second group, the “returnee.” In his discussion of the perspective of the African expatriate Harris asserts:
There are migrations and there are Middle Passages. The differences are phenomenal and phenomenological. For Africans the Atlantic Ocean has been liminal, a threshold for crossing into a different realm, a different consciousness. The artists who have migrated across it—or by extension the Mediterranean—have done so seeking personal transformation of a lesser magnitude than what was experienced by those torn across it in the Middle Passage. (11)
Harris goes on to discuss the “metaphor” of Africa in the “West,” namely that it is conceived as a country rather than a continent. He then reviews past dialogues between Africans and African-Americans across the Atlantic, (e.g. the Pan African Conferences of the 1900s), and the works of various African artists who have “crossed the threshold.” After attempting to link the idea of the “traveling artist” to certain traditional African cultures, Harris discusses the influence of African art upon the modernists and construes the Atlantic-as-metaphorical-threshold. The artists profiled in the essay are: Ouattara, Moyo Okediji, Skunder Boghossian, Amir Nour, Rashid Diab, Sokari Douglas Camp, and Moyo Ogundipe.
Interestingly, the discussion on Ouattara is not really about Ouattara, but about another artist: Jean-Michel Basquiat. For the uninitiated reader this raises a critical question: Who was Jean-Michel Basquiat? The question is answered in a roundabout way. Harris tells us that while Ouattara was mounting an exhibition in Paris, Basquiat was in Côte d’Ivoire studying “African spiritualism.” It is not clear what he means by “African spirituality” and what that has to do with Ouattara. But he presses on to tell us that Basquiat introduced Ouattara’s works to the New York art establishment, and that it is through Basquiat’s work that “Ouattara sees cultural connections and memories.” If so, what is the basis of Ouattara’s inspiration in art? How is it that it is in Paris that Ouattara learned about “cultural connections and memories”? He could not have lost his cultural connections and memories since he had not yet crossed the Atlantic. Besides, with Basquiat far away in Côte d’Ivoire, more information is needed on how Ouattara was able to put on a successful exhibition all by himself.
Although Outtara has displayed his own talent in Paris, Harris would have us believe that he was somehow dependent upon Basquiat’s influence when he came to New York. After a page and a half of additional information on Basquiat, in this two-page profile of Ouattara, he goes on to describe the “spiritual” aspects of Ouattara’s work. Most notably, he commits a serious error when describing some historical aspects of Ouattara’s work. In an endnote of his description of Ouattara’s N’Krouma Berlin 1885, he represents the classical Ethiopian language of Ge’ez as being “written in South Arabian characters.” Again, Harris fails to explain why is it that “the language of literature and religion” of Ethiopia (and not Yemen) is written in “South Arabian” characters? Perhaps, Ethiopia was once a colony of South Arabia? Or, Ethiopians were taught by the South Arabians how to write their own language? Strangely, there seems to be a reluctance to see the Ethiopians, as true owners of their language, a move that invokes the Eurocentric practice of denying inventiveness to Africans. Let us just hope that this is an innocent slip in this historical attribution.
In contrast to the feature on Ouattara, the profile of Moyo Okediji is exclusively devoted to the artist. A reader is left in not doubt about Okediji’s agency. He is completely self-motivated. On Harris’s telling, we find a portrait of a narrow-minded student who had never met any African-Americans yet disliked them. Okediji is transformed into an artist of international renown and his “consciousness politicized towards an appreciation of his Yoruba heritage” by contact with African-American artist Winnie Owens-Hart (also featured in this exhibition.). Inspired by an African American to appreciate his own heritage, Okediji seizes the initiative, studies for (and completes) a Master’s degree in Fine Arts and begins teaching in Nigeria. Unlike Ouattara, who is dependent on another Diasporan artist for even his own “cultural memories,” Okediji’s subsequently begins to use the traditional color schemes and pigments of the Yoruba in his works. Nowhere is this directly attributed to the work of Winnie Owens-Hart. Finally, according to Harris, Okediji paints his masterpiece (Ogunic Exploits) while studying for his Ph.D.
But is this portrayal of Okediji by Harris entirely accurate? Professor Nkiru Nzegwu of Binghamton University, who attended the University of Ife during Okediji’s residency there, notes that as far back as 1973, in Okediji’s freshman year, there was an African-American artist-in-residence (a sculptor) as well as a Japanese American instructor at Ife.3 The point is that University of Ife is not the closed society that Harris has depicted. Against this background data, the “politicizing” influence of Owens-Hart becomes questionable. Matters are further complicated when one considers that “an appreciation of...African, including Yoruba artistic heritage,” was part of the standard curriculum for students (like Okediji) at Ife.4 Thus we find Harris’s praise of Owens-Hart through utilizing Okediji as a foil misrepresents historical facts. It blows some aspects of Okediji’s life out of proportion, and conveniently omitted others, in order to fit them into the theme “Transatlantic Dialogue.” In addition to the rather rigid manner in which Harris carries out the profile, we also see a creative use of language without notifying the reader of that fact. For instance, commenting on Okediji’s The Dutchman Harris states that “It was inspired by Robert Hayden’s poem, Middle Passage, and may signify Okediji’s own psychic reconnection to his long, lost ancestors strewn across the Atlantic and to those who survived in the New World.” (p. )
Long, lost ancestors? What does Harris mean? Is he taking an “ancestor” to mean any individual from a distant generation or a lineal relative? This needs to be made more explicit. It may seem a small point, but there is a lot riding on the difference. An “ancestor” is one from whom one lineally descends. If there is no lineal descent, then Harris is speaking metaphorically and should make that fact clear. Without that clarification, it would be unclear to a reader that he is making Okediji’s family tree more complex than it is. The reader could assume that he knows for sure that there were members of Okediji’s lineage who crossed the Middle Passage. This assumption reinforces the assertion that Okediji is also having “psychic reconnections” with these ancestors. But what sort of reconnections does Harris have in mind? The issue is not really that there were no lineal relatives of Okediji in the Middle Passage but that a more systematic explanation of historical connections is required to account for how these individuals could have been Okediji’s ancestors. Bald assertions do not establish anything, they do not even constitute an argument.
Moving past the brief profiles of the other artists—Skunder Boghossian, Amir Nour, and Rashid Diab—we come to Sokari Douglas Camp. Harris states that Camp has “overcome the conventions of her native Kalabari and adopted British cultures.” He neglects to say in what ways this occurred? Is it merely by her being a woman artist, a woman sculptor, and a woman working in “welded steel”? Harris’s use of the term ‘woman’ to preface ‘artist’ and ‘sculptor,’ makes one wonder about his views of women in these fields. None of the other artists were called ‘man’ artists? Why is there a sudden need to call attention to her sex and not, for example, to Rashid Diab’s? Also, the assertion that it is “rare . . . rarer . . . and terribly rare” to find women working in art (in “Western art traditions”), is “terribly” inaccurate. Consider that museum archives are literally filled with such “rare” works done by women. Are we to say, “women just don’t work in sculpture in this tradition,” merely because their works are not displayed? If he is referring to Kalabari tradition, he needs to establish that in a more methodical way. Lastly, what do we make of the fact that Camp is relegated to speaking only of her childhood?
None of the other artists were put in this position. This further raises the question of why is Camp quoted in a manner that exoticizes traditional African art forms (“wilder than any Rave kind of music?”) An unconscious sexism seems to have slipped into this profile, fueling speculation that Camp may have been included only to serve as the “token woman artist” for Harris’s “Dialogue.” When one considers other more substantial profiles of Camp5 one can only wonder why Harris’s treatment is so exceedingly thin.
The profile of Moyo Ogundipe is quite exemplary, if only for the fact that it reveals Harris’s rather traditional approach to art. Describing a point of “Transatlantic Dialogue” in the life of Ogundipe (a very accomplished individual who has taught and even directed feature films), Harris states that he finds it “interesting” that Claude McKay’s poem If We Must Die had such an impact upon Ogundipe. Ogundipe is “more lyrical than socially active, his concerns more spiritual and philosophical than secular,” as if “spiritual” and “philosophical” concerns must automatically detach one from one’s world: “In his [Ogundipe’s] art we see the private concerns of a Yoruba man who has chosen to emphasize what is human in him, what he might have in common with creative people anywhere” (27).
Clement Greenberg couldn’t have said it better. The true artist is not concerned with such “parochial” matters as social activism or politics, he seeks to emphasize his ‘humanity,’ i.e., his ‘universal’ appeal to “creative people” everywhere. This is a patronizing language. If Harris accepts that an artist must emphasize ‘his humanity,’ why does he find the impact of Mckay’s “social activism” on Ogundipe quite “interesting?” Is he assuming that “A Yoruba man” is not expected “to emphasize what is human in him”? That assumption bedevils the entire review. Even the meaning of “what is human in [Ogundipe]” is problematic, for as Harris explains near the end of the essay:
It is the way of the world that has forced into being the geographic and racial coalitions we often take for granted today. Ouattara, a Bambara-speaking artist from Côte d’Ivoire, came from an area in French-speaking Africa, yet one of his mightiest influences was the late Jean-Michel Basquiat, a New York artist with mixed New World ancestry and African roots . . . Before the arrival of the British in what is now Nigeria, the Kalabari people of Sokari Douglas Camp’s ancestry may not have been able to communicate effectively with the Oyo-based ancestors of Moyo Okediji, but today their descendants reside in an African nation where English is the lingua franca. Despite this historical diversity, the movements of history brought them together . . . and the accidents of personality unified them as artists. (28)
Thus under the guise of ‘unity in diversity,’ we have what is a thoroughgoing defense of the forces behind the Middle Passage and colonialism. The “universalizing” forces of “Western civilization” allowed African artists to transcend their “tribal” parochialism. The “movements of history” have allowed these artists (from their various “isolated tribes”) to “dialogue” with one another and in so doing express what is “truly human” within them. The humanity of Africans, their creative insight, their accomplishments are all due to the Slave Trade and colonialism. If Harris want to argue that he was not saying these things, then what indeed was he saying?
The essay by Okediji is no different, except now it employs the motif of the African-American “returning” to Africa. Here, the “creative” use of terminology makes it clear that historically accurate description is not what is at stake. Packed with academic jargon, exotic imagery, and the all-too-fashionable references to the influence of Jazz, Okediji’s piece is quite nearly as shallow as Harris’s piece (which preceded it.) Beginning with reference to John Biggers’ 1997 exhibition in the Boston Museum of Fine Art, Okediji states: “People of all races and varied economic classes flock to the same gallery hall, congregate in close exhibition spaces, and exchange ideas in a relaxed social setting, generating a warmer kind of harmony, beyond aesthetics. . . .” (34).
No one can argue with diversity, but is an exhibition in an exclusive art gallery truly a “relaxed social setting?” The upshot of all this is: “The Biggers exhibition provides an avenue for interaction and communication among diverse groups that do not ordinarily meet under such cultural circumstances” (34).
Now, the universalizing power of “Western civilization” (under the guise of the Boston Museum of Fine Art) is allowing the various “tribes” of Boston to explore their “common humanity.” The essay is replete with romantic references to Africa, questionable historical allusion, analogies which do not hold, and unbridled praise for Jean-Michel Basquiat (whom, as Okediji makes clear, was widely acclaimed among New York art circles). It goes rapidly downhill after the account of John Biggers’ exhibition. Two examples of this are found in his descriptions of the works Homage to B.B. King (Yvonne Edwards-Tucker and Curtis Tucker) and Shotguns, Fourth Ward (John Biggers.)
Noting the universal qualities of the Tuckers’ piece, Okediji describes its affinities to the raku technique of “Asia,” incised patterns of “several African pottery traditions,” and the red-figure style of ancient Greece. Recounting the distinctive features of this pottery, he states that it has the “sensuous lip of Eshu” and contours which “swell to bend every line like roads and rivers curving around the swells of the mountain.” On closer evaluation, this all turns out to be an exercise in poetic license. Okediji gives us no reason why these pots should not have the “sensuous lip” of any other deity of the Yorùbá pantheon. Why Eshu and not Òbátálá, or Sàngó, or Òsun ? Maybe the lines of the pot do remind one of rivers coursing down a gorge, but can anyone say how Eshu (the divinity of the crossroads) has the “wide and generous” lips of a vase? Could it be that the pots somehow ‘allude’ to the pots used in ‘communion and supplication’ to the deity, Eshu? Okediji does not say—but as he notes the pots’ universal nature, he indeed says the opposite. There is nothing peculiarly specific to Eshu in these pots.
The account of John Biggers’ Shotguns, Fourth Ward, is equally creative. Supposedly, as Okediji tells it, Biggers was looking for the Yorùbá word that matches “shotgun.” Okediji mentions the name of Sàngó (the Yorùbá divinity of lightning) and this supposedly reveals some esoteric meaning behind the painting Shotguns, Fourth Ward. Although this is a good story, it does not offer any insight to the subject-matter of the painting: women standing in front of “shotgun houses” holding models of these houses in their hands. “Shotgun houses” were so named because they were built around a central hallway extending from the front door to the back (with rooms on the side.) Where Sàngó fits into this architectural concept is anyone’s guess.
Having discussed at length some of the problematic details, we may now focus on a synoptic view of the project of Transatlantic Dialogue.
The truest perspective of life in a particular situation is that derived from the very person who lives it. Who, for example, would be better to ask about life in poverty than the poor? Such a perspective is the best possible, if accuracy is what is at stake. The essays in this catalogue, however, assert exactly the opposite. Describing the experience of African expatriates, we have an African-American who “returned” to Africa for a short visit; while at the other end of the spectrum, we have we have an African expatriate describing the experiences of African-American “returnees.” The rationale for this switch could be that all are apart of the same “Transatlantic” narrative, and thus, voices in the dialogue may be interchanged at will. This would not have been so troublesome, except for a couple of errors. The first is that Harris and Okediji seem to think that the experiences of the African expatriates and African-Americans are completely analogous (i.e., the same). Unfortunately, they could not be more different. While the African artists have permanently left their countries of origin, the African-Americans are merely visitors to the continent. Secondly, instead of asking the artists about their experiences, Harris and Okediji produce essays that are ‘creative’ nonfictional works. Their essays are embellished with popular mysticism, exotic imagery, fashionable jargon, and a great helping of stereotypes. Instead of speaking to African or African-American artists, each essay folds and massages a meagre collection of quotes and biographical details into some predetermined mold.
If accuracy was truly at stake, it would have been preferable for Harris and Okediji to grant each of their subjects an interview on the “cross-fertilization of artistic ideas” between African and African-American artists. However, since these essays in fact were not a series of interviews, the semblance of accuracy would demand that Harris describe the African-American “returnee” experience (as an African-American doing “field work” in Nigeria) while Okediji described the expatriate experience (as a Nigerian now residing in Colorado.) At least then, a review of these essays could have engaged them on their contents. Instead Okediji and Harris composed descriptions of artists in situations exactly the opposite of their own. The resulting factual and methodological errors producing exactly the opposite of what was intended.
1. National Museum of African Art, May 21-September 3, 2000.
2. DuSable Museum of African American History, October 7-December 31, 2000.
3. Personal communication March 2001.
4. Also noted by Nzegwu, 2001.
5. Examples being found in Okoye, Ikem Stanley “Ajuju Azu Ndu II: (or Fishy Questions) on the Body of Contemporary Izhon and Igbo Sculpture: Sokari Douglas Camp and Chris Afuba.” Issues in Contemporary African Art. Ed. Nkiru Nzegwu. Binghamton, NY: ISSA, 1998; and High-Tesfagiorgis, Freida “An Interwoven Framework of Art History and Black Feminism: Framing Nigeria.” Contemporary Textures: Multidimensionality in Nigerian Art. Ed. Nkiru Nzegwu. Binghamton, NY: ISSA, 1999.
Copyright 2003 Africa Resource Center