Arts + Culture
Photo still from Daniel Obasi's 'Udara' courtesy of Vlisco.

Daniel Obasi & Yagazie Emezi Probe Igbo Culture's Past and Present Traditions In This New Multimedia Project

The Nigerian artists have created a short film and lookbook in collaboration with Vlisco&co.

At the top of 2018, Nigerian creative Daniel Obasi pushed the envelope with his fashion film collaboration with Vlisco&co, An Alien In Town.

The artist has teamed up again with the Vlisco venture, along with photographer Yagazie Emezi, for the latest edition highlighting Eastern Nigeria.

After touching base with its Nigerian creative network for a roundtable discussion, Vlisco&co presents a unified visual narrative exploring the old and new traditions of Igbo culture and its connection with Vlisco wax. This multimedia project was deeply researched and gave Obasi and Emezi the room to document beliefs, myths and ways of life found in Igbo culture that are still alive, despite the preconceived notion that they are fading away.

These projects feature Vlisco fabrics that are too familiar in Igbo (and Nigerian) households, and were reworked into contemporary designs by Nigerian designers Fruche by Frank Aghuno and Gozel Green.


Photo still from Daniel Obasi's 'Udara' courtesy of Vlisco.

Photo still from Daniel Obasi's 'Udara' courtesy of Vlisco.

Obasi's short film, Udara, is a spiritual experimental fantasy that pays homage to Igbo culture's complex diversity through its symbolism, music, traditional beliefs and the tension between Christianity and traditional religion that's ever-present in Igbo communities. The film is deliberately timeless, drawing inspiration from the past and present in hopes to expand the perspective of what is possible with Igbo culture.

The synopsis continues:

After the loss of a dear one, two girls take a trip back to their hometown in an attempt to connect with the past. Ada is constantly haunted by dreams of herself in a different lifetime, [while] Nne, her sister, tries to guide and console her. Agu and Eze both stand on opposing ends of the conversation of religion. Agu [is] a crusader for tradition but is somehow still a church goer and Eze is stuck between proving himself traditionally as an Igbo man or following his father's dreams to become a church priest. Ironically, Agu and Ada (both strangers) are caught up in the same mystical dream from a lifetime ago until they run into each other.

In Udara, Obasi also explores the concept of ilo uwa, or reincarnation—"the belief that someone can be re-born in another lifetime."

Watch the film below.

Emezi's concept for capturing Gozel Green and Fruche's collections in the lookbook component of this project stems from the Igbo custom of same-sex marriages in pre-Christian Igboland and Uli drawing—a well-known traditional art form practiced by Igbo women that has gradually disappeared from the public eye.

"It was important for me to produce more than a lookbook—the works created are an amalgamation of Igbo culture, present and forgotten," she explains on Instagram.

She also adds that before Christianity was introduced in Igboland, women were permitted to choose a wife and go through traditional marriage rites as a result of the death of a husband where no child was produced. "To have children, they could freely choose a man and the child(ren) would bear the name of the woman-husband. In other cases, a single wealthy woman could choose a wife and sometimes, more than one," she continues. "In our story, the women still have just themselves, at easy in their home and confident in their identity."

Emezi was able to connect with makeup artist Oragudosi Sophia Obiamaka to adorn the models in the lookbook with accurate Uli designs. Igbo women not only adorned their bodies with Uli using a semi-permanent dye from specific trees, but also the walls of their homes. "Uli designs can, at times, be abstract while other designs represent aspects of daily life from animals, nature and home accessories," Emezi explains. "With the entry of Western religion and forceful colonial powers, the practice was deemed as 'primitive.' Women were encouraged not to draw Uli designs on their bodies, but rather, on cloth. As result, this led to a sharp and steady decline of the art form."

Take a look at our favorite images from the lookbook below.

Designed by Fruche for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Gozel Green for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Fruche for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Gozel Green for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Fruche for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Gozel Green for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Fruche for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Gozel Green for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

Designed by Fruche for Vlisco&co. Photo by Yagazie Emezi, courtesy of Vlisco.

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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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