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.

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