Arts + Culture
Image via coraliecocorabadan's Instagram.

The 2018 DAK'ART Biennale Was a Creative Playground For African Artists

A look back at Senegal's biggest contemporary art gathering.

The dust has settled and Senegal has bid adieu to it's momentous 13th Dak'art Biennale. It proved to be the landmark event it's meant to be. From May 3rd to June 2nd, hundreds of works were shown and events took place in Dakar and surrounding areas.

The grandiose Ancien Palais de Justice stood at the center of the IN, like it did in 2016, with a number of paintings, photos, sculptures, videos and installations placed throughout its atriums and courtyards. IN artists' works called to mind a desire for unity, acceptance and home.

The OFF was the Biennale's playground, showcasing artists who didn't necessarily adhere to the Red Hour theme. Eclectic pieces were placed in hotels, restaurants, shops, by monuments, beaches, etc. The decentralization of art was awe-inspiring.




Press, creatives, merchants, art connoisseurs and visitors excitedly descended on the artistic hub. The works on display were a mélange of styles, subjects and materials.

It is important to note, there were realities evident in Dakar that I was not privy to upon my arrival in the city. Despite my excitement that its inhabitants were a critical part of this experience, I quickly learned that many of them had no idea this event was taking place. My driver and guide entered l'Ancien Palais de Justice dumbfounded by what was inside. They voraciously took in pieces much like I did.

Art can not possibly play a critical role in the life of someone who does not come from a realm of existence like my own.

With the Biennale, there are social, economic and political factors at play. Simon Njami, curator, was tasked with making a number of unconventional decisions. He re-trained a number of workers from 2016 to facilitate the events. A number of artists on display at the Biennale lived outside the continent, therefore needed to be offered visas; he did just that. He reached out to 50 percent of the artists on display. He opened the event up to more than just holders of African passports so as to foster new conversations around art and the continent and its growth. Contrary to popular belief, events of this magnitude do not take place in the country. It is not home to a contemporary art museum, it lacks galleries and activities around art are a rarity. I learned post this event, the country doesn't necessarily support the arts.

To truly examine the event, it must be looked at broadly so I bar these thoughts.

I focus on this. On my second day in Dakar, as I sat at a dinner table with a Nigerian entrepreneur, Senegalese singer, Congolese artist, Haitian-Senegalese artist, Cameroonian-Chadian artist and Cameroonian deejay I realized this is what makes this event powerful. Africa, it's diaspora and individuals who consume our work come together to partake in a number of powerful dialogues. We exchange ideas. We recognize that we are living at a time where there is widespread interest in the continent and that Africa's time is indeed now.

Myself and many others look forward to Dak'Art 2020.

Here are some highlights of the 2018 Biennale:

1. Ghanaian Godfried Donkor collage series Olympians, was an ode to Senegalese wrestling.


2. The Grand Prix Léopold-Sédar-Senghor award was given to Franco-Beninese photographer for her series on breaking free, rooted in examining how Africa is portrayed in the media.

3. Egyptian artist Ibrahim Ahmed's Only Dreamers Leave was an installation of fabric sails, serving as a representation of leaving home and migrating elsewhere.

4. At L'Île de Gorée, a place where the slave trade was orchestrated, Senegalese artist Soly Cissé presented Cotton Field.

5. Nathalie Mba Bikoro's Triumph of Seagulls was a celebration of female empowerment.

6. The home of one of Africa's most notorious sculptors, Ousmane Sow, was opened for viewing.

7. Gambian photographer Lena Nian opted for a black and white gallery on tribal unity.

8. At Espace VEMA, there was the Kraftsman exhibition where Senegalese creative Papi channeled energy through pigments.

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Audrey Lang is an alumna of Northeastern University and a Boston-based site merchandiser. A surveyor of life who's enamored with all things fashion, art and Africa, keep up with her on Instagram and Tumblr.

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Collage by Ta'Ron Joyner

I Would Rather Breathe Than Think Outside the Box

South African artists were already working for little to no pay, but the pandemic has unleashed a flood of exploitative work requests right when we need money the most.

This essay is part of OkayAfrica's SA Reframed series, featuring personal writing from some of South Africa's best young writers edited by Verashni Pillay.

On the radio the other day, I heard a small business owner of a costume design company being interviewed and asked how they have managed to:

a. Reinvent themselves during this period, and

b. Think outside the box while doing so.

Their conversation made me think about how I have not managed to wrap my head around any sort of future, or reinvention outside any kind of box—beyond the one that wraps itself around my immediate reality. When the lockdown was announced, three friends and I withdrew to a remote area where internet access was dubious and, most times, simply not available. I would need to walk a bit of a distance to locate a spot under a tree or up a mountain to be connected for thirty minutes, or so.

Then I would do a basic comb through my emails and respond to work or requests that were already underway pre-lockdown. I only responded to new requests that either afforded me the opportunity to earn an income or those that allowed me to be productive on my own terms.

I was tired, lowkey grateful for the global pause, and no longer interested in the overly productive, overloaded nature of my previous normal. Something about the forced halt made me realise that I was on the edge of everything—myself included. I turned down anything that required me to join the endless online festivals, zoom panel discussions, Instagram takeovers and live readings. I refused all opportunities that needed me to grapple with any sort of forced normalcy. The ones that offered data or airtime or solidarity as compensation or assumed that I had gone pro bono. I needed a moment. I needed the space and time to re-bargain with the point of it all.

The pause was both useful and scary. It brought to the surface fears and revelations about the shortfalls of our industry and how creatives are positioned within the productivity machinery and economy of South Africa, or rather all the ways we fall outside of it.

As Minister of employment and labour Thulas Nxesi mentioned in a briefing two months ago, "On the issue of freelance workers—unfortunately with the current legislation they fall outside. Maybe what we are going to do is that after this we will have to re-look at it in terms of our legislative amendments and start a debate about that." Why are there laws that have gone unchallenged? Who should be challenging them? Why are artists hearing, out loud for the first time, of convenient loopholes that render us outside of an economy that taxes us like everyone else, and consumes us and our work. Yet, in times of crisis, this same economy engages with our art and our productivity and our products, but still deems us on the margin, outside, and non-essential. If we are not assisted financially, how can we be productive, how can we acquire the resources to produce? How can we apply our minds to anything else outside of survival and scrambling to stay afloat.

Pandemics do not mean that artists have gone pro bono

When you approach an artist with the assumption that they have gone pro bono during this time, when you draft an email to request a collaboration, a commission, a participation, a productivity of any kind, please bear in mind that artists are up against an unconcerned and corrupt government that has failed to provide aid and assistance to their sector during this time.

Theatre critic Sara Holdren says "Art is hard and most of it fails—either in small ways or catastrophic ones." In South Africa, the process of making art is hard, sure, but more than that, the conditions and the context in which we make work fails us in catastrophic ways that will require more than a debate and amended legislation. It will need, for starters, a minister who cares about the arts and understands its soul and mechanisms. This pause has brought about more questions and concerns for me than inspiration to reinvent or think outside the box. I have questions about the box itself and why I feel asphyxiated and trapped by its design.

I would rather breathe than think outside of the box

This pandemic has made me question what my career, livelihood and stability have been built on; what has been propping them up all this time, and what has been allowing me to appear valued and valuable in this economy? What does and will the spectrum of value look like in a normal that has been disrupted and now sits in a near distant future that may or may not be near?

Then I find myself vacillating between hope and concern. My hope is that when the pandemic is no longer with us, artists can have a come-to-jesus conversation about what has contributed and exacerbated this attitude and disrespect toward our practice and industry, I hope we can challenge the legislations that we have been dared to challenge, I hope we can be productive in ways that serve us and make sense for our well-being, that we will be paid our worth and that our society will realize that without the artist producing, there will be no art, or music, or films, or books and things that have kept people entertained and creatively nourished during this time.

My concern is that the "free"content artists are currently creating and the free access to art or performances, will not make this realisation possible, and that this kind of access, that was already undervalued and exploited, will be irreversible. The exploitation dialogue is tiring. Being treated as non-essential is tiring and terrifying too, and while most of the world can slowly start going back to work, most artists will probably have to hang tight until 2021, maybe even 2022.

While artists deal with a hoax of an arts and culture department that is dead to us and a minister who tweets more than he does his job, in an ideal world, I wish that artists could afford to indulge uncertainty, and fear, and pause, in ways that allow them to heed the call made by Nicholas Berger in his piece The Forgotten Art of Assembly [Or, Why Theatre Makers Should Stop Making] "We must lean into this pain. We must feel the grief. We must mourn. Mourn the loss of work, the loss of jobs, the loss of money, the loss of life. Mourn the temporary loss of an art form that demands assembly. Lean into the grief. Lean in. Lean in. Lean in. We must remind ourselves that mourning is a human act, not a digital one."

Koleka Putuma is an award-winning poet, playwright and theatre director. Her bestselling debut collection of poems Collective Amnesia is in its 10th print run and her play No Easter Sunday for Queers Sunday for Queers won several awards.

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