So often, whenever, the word arts is mentioned, I instantaneously conjure up the following adjectives: sexuality, sperms, eggs, private parts, palpitation, blood, birth, life, death, pregnancy, delivery, gynecologists, midwives, miscarriage, bridge, ancestors and god of good, all in the same breath. These sums up dozens of other mellifluous words if you like, that fits into creating and bringing life that is arts into the populations sync.
In my own books, arts is a by product of love making. In this article I am going to enumerate my assessment. In my artful life, a life full of social commentary, on various social subjects, some beyond my comprehension, and other purely out of my scope. I have as a matter of course, produced, in the same sequence of action, as females and males, procreate, disappear behind sheets and sleep with my partner *(subject) before getting impregnated. (Un)fortunately, in my case, sometimes, the growth process of the foetus in my tummy *(brain) can take a few days. Of course, at some point, its not easy, the pregnancy, may take longer than nine months. In the worst of scenarios, the delivery may go beyond the anticipated date.
Let me take you to my confidence, it normally begins exactly like in a make believe dream that simulates a fairytale. The long and short of it, I would take to the streets of my neighbourhood, and tread on the alleyways and pavements alive with colourful characters of opposite sex *(subjects), Immediately these subject gets the better of me, my adrenalin would pump up sweet honeyed juice down my bloodstreams, this only happens when I am greeted by a subject that takes my fancy. Look at it this way, as in all lustful relationships, I flirt with my subject and want to hit it out on the spot. When the chemistry between me and my subject gives a go ahead, I go for the jugular. Remember, arts are genderless, race less, and speaks to those with ears to listen, eyes to see, and above all a head to process information.
My partner (subject) I would desire to bed, does not necessarily have to be accessorized in designer labels, be alluringly gorgeous, unutterably ugly, or what a view. Everything in my environment goes, basically in my life, the subject does not have to fit any stereotypes. The mechanism of hitting off immediately may be described love at first. Mind you, you don’t have to know what is brewing in the heart of your subject, before throwing the cupid down your would be partners heart. You may be opening yourself to mental and spiritual abuse by following your heart. Furthermore, you may be excuse the pun, throwing yourself in the big deep. The luck ones gets attracted to persons (subjects) those that would be vile, (in)compatible. Quite frankly, who cares the show goes on, its children who matters, they make the world goes round.
Anyway love is love, if inebriated, and love struck, you don’t question. True to form, if my feelings comfortably urge me to go for it. Trust me, I pray to my ancestors, to bless the ground on which my footprints wrote my history. Funny, enough if I am besotted, I don’t mind even if I indulge in a one night stand. Not because I advocate sleeping around. You may rightfully ask, if I use condoms to mitigate against the spread of AIDS. It follows that in my case, because I indiscriminately pick my subjects everywhere, the issue of condom usage is non negotiable. I take precaution because I don’t want to be an outcast.
Just as I have allowed my mind to lead me into temptation, lo and behold, the one night stand between me and my alien partner, would leave me expectant. This the result of my being high on hormonal revolution. I would be pregnant with ideas. As with arts imitating real life, it is common for me to retreat to my sojourn, and ponder the future, as well as my state of health. Flare-up such as heartburns, mood swing, are some of the anomaly opening the by ways in my systems. Those closest to me are likely how unfriendly I become, as a result of incubating a foetus.
More than most, I would be damn worried, to take the world to my confidence. Principal in my mind as I traverse mother earth would be the state of the baby *(subject). It measures also that I would be sickly concern if the baby is going to be yet another Mona Lisa, and sing like Nina Simone, or weave words together in the same manner like Ngugu wa Thiogo. Again and again, I picture the baby exchanging hands, adored and be embraced by all and sundry. The ifs also comes into the equation. I wonder aloud what happens if I push one of the greatest subject. With time the anxiety becomes extraordinary, as the foetus develops. It would be common to witness me cutting a lone figure and twiddle my fingers. Within a matter of time my prayers to god would intensify. Nearly on the onset of pregnancy, like all content mom to be, I would be beside myself, as sonar images of my baby hit me before my eyes. In sheer excitement I would be overwhelmed to no end.
Naturally, upon taking to the streets, I would smile from ear to ear knowing fully well I am about to pop out a baby. Make no mistakes, not everything becomes a walk in the park. There of course thankless moments, when I would be mad and tore the sonar images *(sketches). The rituals of shredding paper, happens, each time I feel like puking, after indigestion because of foreign diets, that does not sit well with my baby. On other days, blessings comes thick and fast, with tender kicks, signalling a momentous period beckoning ahead. In the main each time the connection between the baby me takes place, I get fulfilment, and can just figure out I am approaching a season brimful of possibilities.
Not long, ammonic fluid, would stream to announce the birth of life *(completion of final artwork). Blood would greet the heavens, severed umbilical cord, forceps will talk to each other. A perfect artwork will smile on me, I would hold on to the life on my hand. And look back at a journey of of the labour of love. Those in attendance at the labour ward, would come in different guises include friends, family and acquaintances. Opinions would vary, some in order to pacify me, are all in likelihood ready to sing praises, generally those who shot from the hip, don’t mince their words, they tell it as it is: “surely brother this time around go back to the drawing board, you did not cut it!’
Naturally, it is so difficulty to receive a clean bill of health on the baby’s status. Invariable, immediately the new baby is introduced to strangers, everybody have their own opinions. These comments would form the basis of your baby’s life. On several occasions I have been told straight on my face that, I produce angry babies. Some give a resounding profile as allude to the fact that my baby is mean, but happy. Even though I endeavour to convince those baptizing my new baby, of my openness to their honest assessment, many lie to conceal what they think. Its an open secret you cannot convince people to think otherwise about your children *(body of work).
Consequently, when you encounter critics now, the language changes. It becomes a seasons of jaundice. What becomes critical to me, is the fact that every baby *(artwork) I produce has its own soul, spirit and heart of their own. Inherently, as with all souls born to mortals, there is usually numerous chapters that gets written. These chapters sometimes covers, miscarriages, easy birth, abortion, adoption and mostly abandonment. There are of course babies who pass on at infancy as I because of the stressful conditions I countenance with. This happens only after my system had pre-warned me of the consequences lying ahead. One of the reasons of miscarriage, is influenced by knowing that you could trample on some toes, and the outcome may be dire (risking being sued). In the bigger scheme of things, the scope, wide, it covers religion, politics, sexual orientation, and the list goes on and on. As a golden rule the sonar images *(conceptual images) would be saved for future generations to study.
The only time I voluntarily enlist my baby for adoptions, its when I have filtered many issues and decided I am giving up. More often than not, it is when, I conceived and felt I am not thinking straight. On the one hand I would be wrestling with a myriad of issues, and the baby would be an added stranglehold and burdensome. In a long term. To a larger extent it is at moments like these when the baby gets given away. However, tireless effort gets into convincing me otherwise, it just becomes a fruitless exercise, because the passion would have died. You may blame such an attitude to multifaceted challenges. Some of the challenges may be put squarely on the question of lack of sustainable support. Fatigue based on the status quo, and lastly the politics of monopoly by a certain segment, who consciously set the parameters.
The many times I allow myself to abandon my babies, is when suddenly, I feel I have little options. In all of this, its of no consequence what gives and takes, whether the baby crawls, talk eloquently, and has a smile to die for, I would care less. Plainly put it whether the baby is going to be a legend, hero or heroine would be neither here or there. For me what becomes an overriding factor, is neither the world stage, nor the accolades, what counts is the sanity, and not pondering to the whims of those with access to funding. In the meantime, it is in times like these when I recoil, and weep silently for my children, some of who dog by price fixing, by those who don’t mind telling you how much your baby must fetch in the market. It is more like negotiating dowry, with pernickety individuals. In most instances, I run away from the such situation, and let it be.
All the same the babies would bear my hallmarks, and for good measure, casual observers, are likely to conclude I am moneyed, not understanding that sometimes you give the babies away.
As a parent you sometimes sob for your beautiful brood, when they are snatched away from you, babies born in loving environment, under sometimes, hard conditions, at times thrown a lifeline, to survive, and at best protected nurtured to the best of your abilities. Quite frankly, those babies who don’t leave my side, face torture. Too often, I dress in many colours, (technically speaking, continue to work on them willy-nilly, until I bleed inside. If I may be allowed to use a crude expression, I abuse them. On the hindsight though, these babies face an uncertain future, because of lacking space, I summarily store them in inhabitable spaces, where they face up to just about a handful of infections *(threat of getting damaged). Then noble question is then, what is arts?
Art; a living legend; sometimes understood and at worst often misunderstood
Art; a religious ritual; sometimes useful and at worst often abused
Art; a messaging medicine; sometimes curative and at worst criticised
Art; a wonderful world; sometimes happening and at worst often harsh
Art; an answerable ancestor; sometimes giving and at worst often misgiving
Art; an almighty ammunition; sometimes fire-fighter and at worst often misfiring
Art; a gracious god; sometimes knelt before and at worst often killed
Art; an explosive enigma; sometimes beautiful and at worst often boastful
Art; a humble human being; sometimes adorable and at worst often atrocious
Art; a pragmatic politics; sometimes loyal and at worst often a liar
Long before I was born, before the art of love and affection, played havoc with my mom and dad, and transplanted the seed that was to be me. Arts, had long played a pivotal role as a catalyst giving voices to the voiceless. I have no qualm if any mortal, puts it to me, and want to know, how is it possible for me to pontificate and give such a wild assertion. The answer to any question around my argument is easy to come by. Mostly visual images, sad, sweet and sour sound, and warm and words of words I have crystallised in all my body of works, is a language of life, spoken religiously over centuries, by those who came before me. I am honoured to be the one, given a challenge in my clan, to decode the messages wired to me, by forces (angels) I have not met in my life. Those artful words I easily fashion to be workhorses that define who I am , normally resonate with a few, and are either understood, and consequently misunderstood by many. How often have you witness artists silenced, because those in authority feel someone has overstepped the mark? That’s when arts becomes a living legend.
Twenty five years ago to be precise, I answered a clarion call, its echoes had long prepared my plain to the arts. I sign up as a student of arts, then began a journey of introspections. Remarkable, before accepting my cal, I had played with brushstrokes to create a world free of prejudice, judgementallism, and discrimination. I was a child, in search of answers in an environment provided scant opportunities for the majorities, Quite interestingly, the challenge I had encountered then, provided a fertile ground for me to transform, reverberating echoes of freedom to visual. During all those years I mastered the art of turning poetry coming out of my ears into meaningful images living legends, used extensively in the eighties as a call to action.
Upon realizing I was now able to assimilate the voices that’s, poetry, with sounds, and words, and turn them into visuals I knew I was halfway to producing pieces to mobilize communities. Naturally it was on one of those momentous periods. In my artful life, I did not need any validation. If able to produce artworks that performs religious rituals and create content images, you are in all likely to sometimes confuse the hell out of people, because your body of work chants, speaks, sings and can easily requires of you to wake up in the middle of the night,. and have your hands literally remotely controlled by forces unknown to you. Pretty much like in a dream my hands would draw living lines. When examining those images make people to tell you n your face that such images, are the works produced by a machine, and a human being.
Perhaps, the only time you can be the best in what you do, is when you can decipher voices talking to you, and can be in a position to synchronize sounds emanating from heavens orchestra. I have deliberately, taken the liberty of situating everything heaven, though, caution that what I portray sometimes is ungodly. I tend to do x rated, anti establishment, and cheeky images. I must confess, what is ungodly top some is godly to me. As a creator I personally feel so closer to god, because, if you can interpret the music by the angels, coming straight from heaven. And, can furthermore make the poet from the priest to be massaging medicine sometimes curative and often criticized, continue to be an instrument that proves that arts has a power to heal.
I have through no power of mine, produced artworks that talks to the issues of AIDS. Throughout the whole mission I travel in a pathway punctuated with controversies. Aside from adding my signature to the groundswell of voices, agitating for breaking the silence. I managed to simply the medical jargon from the benefit of thousand men and women, who were exposed to my works. There were of course insurmountable challenges lining the terrain, one was required to work at great length to distigmatise AIDS. I don’t want to claim easy victories, by my work tackle the discrimination, and gave voice to the voiceless. The area of operation was vast, and as complex as HIVirus. One needed to navigate and focus on multiple areas particularly care and support, disclosure and openness, examine human rights of the affected and infected. Last but not least one had to break the stereotypes, associated with AIDS that the pandemic affects predominantly those from underdeveloped communities. This was a tall order, although it was not the first time I had used my art to conscientise communities, everything in this instance was done with the greatest of circumspection.
Finally in my life, art has been a wonderful world, the incidences of AIDS may not have dropped dramatically, but whatever else, the role of arts was happening, in the harshest of situation. Given the fact that my work managed to infiltrate the pulpit, political life, conferences, and just about any sphere of life, that on its own, was a milestone in my life. There were harsh words though, some people were not complementary. But, life went on, T-shirts, overalls, floppy caps, and small media transported the messages, I laboriously etched on paper, at the crack of dawn, at night time, and at any turn, whether travelling by taxi, attending a meeting, or eating my supper. The moral of the story, during the 21st century, my art was answerable to my ancestors, well I had used the same idiom, art as voice in the terrain of the struggle for total transformation at home.
If you follow the voice the pathway is not necessarily littered with gold. I believe and rightfully so, that I have done a difference with my body of works. I may not be a face that is mob in the streets, and stopped for autographs, however, each time I walk, I connect with my work, whether pasted on windows or gracing the walls of hospitals. I have invested in life for the love of humanity. How do you invest in life when there are contestation issues. Sometimes body and soul needs to be taken care of. The most compelling thing to know is that there is no important body and soul like the family of humanity. Fame and fortune, must not compromise your arts, if they come, they must come in their time and not interfere with the voice. I have elected to focus on burning myself for the benefits of humanity, and the world to draw on my inspiration in times of strife, hardships, happiness, sadness, and soothing moments.
As I witness my body of works, becomes an almighty ammunition, which sometimes gives and grab attention. I am confidence in my knowledge that there is a generation of youngsters who may follow in my footsteps, and walk the same plain, traversed by a legion of other artists. These would be youngsters, who sees arts as playing a significant role, to honour and protect humanity. Those ambassadors, are spread all over the world, they will all lend their voices and sing from the same score sheet, to raise issues. These are men and women, who love humanity, and are one with humanity from all over the face of mother earth. It easy to see that our god is gracious, and we need to knell before him/her and not be faze by those who wishes to kill our arts, because arts many thing to different people.
Sometimes some fault you for hero worshipping your artworks, you squint, at your work, examine your work daily, like someone paying veneration, to your ancestors, In actual fact, it is very difficulty for me to know whether I pray to my arts, the simply truth is: from the time I conceptualise (carry my artwork) I develop affinity with my sketches, even when I sleep, I take a miniature drawing board and put it closer to my pillowcase, to steal a glimpse of the artwork throughout the night, in order to add a line if need be. Simultaneous, whilst dreaming, I would put my dream in the backburner and go back to my work. This is when arts becomes an explosive beauty and often a bully. In adoration I would look at my creation and smile at smile at the body of work that will add value to those who embrace my work. In my artwork, I would have hidden all my fears, laid bare my thoughts, and above all probe and provoke. Sometimes in your life you are bound to be tempted and say ‘oh what a beautiful existence!’ But, what keeps you grounded, is knowing at least that the gods have blessed you with a latent talent, of speaking a language that does not require any translations, but can be grasped by all who come to read through, what you say.
Arts is one of the those few medium that can transform society. To a large extent arts has the power of making individuals happy. Fortunately our world, is such a narrow space, we are able to sometimes give a smile to the cantankerous, provide a channel of reconciliation to people, and can unite the world. All of us can sing, sometimes in discourse, most of us have participated in the creation of artworks directly or indirectly, what one says and do is inspired by individuals, all of us have written unpublished poetry, sometimes to our loved ones,, some of these stanzas touch our families during hardships. Mostly, wonderful lines escapes our lips, these lines if not written down dissipate from the planet, no soonest they are utter. Clearly no one can claim they never played their roles in the drama that is life, and had never received standing ovation. Daily in the offices, homes, and everywhere we take to our roles like seasons professionals.
Our own existential is arts, it is then appropriate to proclaim that arts creates humble human beings, who sometimes are adorable and often atrocious. Those who know what they want in life, champions like me and you, who never stop to show they care. It sounds easy enough,. But it’s a tough cal. When we learn to be humble we connect in a special way with others. When we we could easily attune to their rhythms. If you can dance to the tune without wanting to compete, your heart is in the right place. Artists are never paupers, artists are never addicts, artists are never hopeless, and artists are never special. What makes artists special is not because they are extraordinary, however, artists know that today, is like tomorrow. And its only details that needs to change between today and tomorrow. And the world remains the same. So next time you are greeted by an artwork, know that your song, poetry, drama, sound, voice and words gave life to what takes your breath away.
Well, don’t ask me about royalties, because I am constantly trying to figure out who owns the copyrights. Is it god? My ancestors? Nature? My neighbour? You or me? As long as you give me space to create, every other thing is inconsequential in my books. Celebrate my work, and please be so kind and desist from celebrating me. I am no hero, only a human imbued with humanity. My arts; a pragmatic politics; sometimes loyal and at worst often a liar.
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