The piece explores, from a personal
point of view, what art is and is not.
So
I pitched a tent on cyberspace. For the love of art and all that surrounds it, I came up with a blog, Lit ‘n’ Life. Just
recently, I came to the conclusion that what I do on the blog couldn’t be art; it
is rather art in an inchoate form. The fact that I write; that I appreciate literature
most times conceals from me the reality that there is much to art than what is
scribbled and read. It is so with other forms of art too. Until recently, I’ve
not had any reason to consider the boredom inherent in being obsessed with books.
I mean being obsessed with no other thing but books. They are beneficial
nonetheless, but there are vacuums they can’t just fill. You don’t go munching
on pages of poetry when hunger gnaws at you; neither do you offer your in-laws
books in place of a bride price. The problem with being obsessed with just
books hits you hard on the face when you find yourself seeking succour as a
result of the psychological labyrinth a Fyodor Dostoevsky work, for instance throws
you. I must confess that nothing else grants relief at such time but another
form of art. It could be music, a cup of beer or coffee. Better or worse still, marijuana
could be a good option. For me, whatever it is, is art. Then, art could only be
one thing: all.
So
can I define art? No, because it is like clearing the grime in the Augean
stable. I can only express some thoughts. Yes, that’s what they are - thoughts;
metaphors of what art is. I prefer to say art is all, though that is relative to
me. Denying that art is all will amount to denying the fact that all that man does
– positive or otherwise - is reliant on creativity. After all, man, was brought
to life that he himself may bring to life; create. To bring to life (whether
concrete or abstract) is what art does.
So
art is what my grandmother does to bring yellow, fluffy banku- a Ghanaian delicacy - out of corn; as it is with me eating it
and thereafter, manipulating words on my mini PC, Tobby. Art is what kukere is to Iyanya as moonwalking was to Michael
Jackson. Art is a lady pleasuring herself with a pen in between butterflied legs;
or a man making his wife come. Art is Tyler Perry playing Madea and Jamie Foxx,
Django; it is Miley Cyrus twerking, as it is you reading and punching the screen before you because you don’t agree all these could be art…art is all, even madness.
So
here is what art is not: a hermit. It works better when it does not exist in
isolation. Kenyan author, Okwiri Oduor says ‘All art, not just writing, is
incestuous.’ I’ve thought well about this and all I can come up with are
reminiscences of the effects the unity of different art forms have had on me. I
remember the night Enya tunes nudged me on to disregard the prolixity of
reading the diary of thirteen year old Anne Frank till the last leaf was turned. I
remember the pleasure I derive reading Saraba’s Art issue and most importantly, feeding
my eyes on its delectable offering of illustrative landscapes. Art,to me becomes either
bland or out-dated when it is devoid of incestuous tendencies. Whatever is
regarded as art has the liberty to be incestuous for therein lies its
sustainability. Its strength. I often wonder why Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun and
Abimbola Egbokhare’s Dazzling Mirage
must be adapted into movies. Here are possible reasons: the interaction between art
forms can only bring about newness; and newness can only lead to the
protraction of discourses. By the way, same has happened to other great works like Beowulf and Shakespeare’s plays.
So
art is what comes off the merger of storytelling and motion pictures; literature
and photography (as exhibited in Klorofyl and Saraba magazines); culture and
technology (as is peculiar to Jepchumba’s African Digital Art); photography and
blogging as it is portrayed on Emeka Okereke’s Invisible Borders, and the like. Realizing this, I have decided to clip the feathers on
my shoulders. It is no longer a special thing that I write. The special thing
is this: art is all and we are all artists: you, my grandmother, Iyanya, Tyler,
Miley, Enya and me. We create. Most importantly, we see to
it that art remains incestuous.
First published in the print version of The Clip Magazine.
First published in the print version of The Clip Magazine.
