PERCEPTIONS ON THE VISUAL ARTS

PERCEPTIONS ON ART

While growing up, I wasn't really interested in my environment, but I was more concerned with people. Why people act the way they do which I later found out was called PSYCHOLOGY.
I just loved to observe sad faces and happy ones and find out what makes them either. I was concerned with the poor neighbours that had to struggle to eat three square meals a day, while we even ate 4 or 5 everyday. Maybe that was what made me big. I was concerned about the neighbour's complaint of NEPA outage because we were the caretakers with the constant generator use at night while those who didn't have suffered the noise and air pollution from it .
I was concerned about my classmates who were not the teachers' favorite because they were slow learners, hence considered weak.
I observed that our teachers then familiarized with the smart and the rich so to either gain favour from their parents and give them extra lessons. Ironically, they smart got smarter and the dull got duller. That is the unfortunate state of the education system of my dear country Nigeria!
Well, I got too interested in people's lives that I suddenly started seeing abnormal lifestyle in school.
I got to meet adolescent gays, paedophiles and assaulters. All my observations about life, why people grow fat and identity, made me start writing and drawing stories as early as age 6. I wish I could still find those stories now. How time flies. My mum built a library for the storage of books. It was really cool and all my antiques were still intact until I got home one day from the boarding house, saw how the numerous books made the house so unkempt and I burnt them - the ones I considered irrelevant-! I can vividly remember how my mum screamed that day! Her mixed feelings. The pain of losing her hard earned money and the joy of a clean house. I didn't really understand what I had done until right this minute.
Somehow, I knew I had something for the Arts, but I had always wanted to be a paediatrician because I felt I understand people especially kids. While in the junior secondary,
I met Aunty Esther Ochiji, A Christian Corper then in St Bridget's College who believed in my artistic ability and gave me full support. Later on in senior secondary, I met Mrs Morah and our low cut art teacher who made art so exciting for us that I almost neglected other subjects. Afterwards, the energetic Delta Corper, Aunty Anita, came with her textile swag which got me so madly in love with textile engineering. We made mufflers and tapestries and cloth prints. I love for art still grew till JAMB refused me admission that year. That particular defeat made me lose interest in everything including arts .
 After two years, I got admission to study arts in Nnamdi Azikiwe University. My passion suddenly swerved from textile to sculpture. I just loved working with clay. Gradually, the passion for art history grew uncontrollably that the only place I wanted to specialize in was Art history. The only reason I can carve out of this is that, I stopped practising drawings and paintings and started reading art related stuff's more. My mates beat me in the practical skills that I thought all hope was lost for me.
Unfortunately for me, there was no art history to specialize in. My favorite art teacher Mrs ZUKY advised me to do what I first loved which was textile, people at home and UCHAY Joel Chima encouraged me to do painting that it is beautiful'
A masters student in school, Mr FREDDO tried to groom me and encourage me never to give up on painting because that would be where I will find my true self.
Most times I wondered what it truly meant to find oneself. Not even close friends and family knew what I was passing through inside. I felt really defeated inside of me. I just couldn't draw or paint anymore. I lost it totally!I just suddenly became a dessert that even a flood causing rainful could moisten.
In the midst of all these, I didn't forget God but I didn't pray to him either because I just couldn't. I kept questioning him and blaming him tirelessly. I always told my mum to pray for me.


Today, the story is no more like it was 6 months ago. I am not a genius, neither am I a professional; I have seen reasons to continue to struggle to draw and paint. I have seen successful women in Art and am greatly inspired especially by Anthea, whom I met in Uchay Joel China's studio.
I have had priceless advices and lectured from the international artist UCHAY himself.
I have met beautiful souls like the crazy Mr Ejoh Wallace, the wise Mr Olaku and the ever generous and kind chairman, Pastor Babatunde of the Universal Studios of Art, Orile - Iganmu, Lagos.
I don't wish to become great and famous and rich and a genius like Leonardo Da Vinci of whom I share the same birthday with, neither do I wish to dine with Kings and priests like Michaelangelo la Buorronatto of whom I read voraciously on in " the agony and the ecstasy " before I appreciate these amazing people in my life.
My generous Godmum who habour me like her own daughter, my siblings, uncle besio and Ginoks, aunt UkAmaka and the rest, who in one way or the other are financing me or still are. Thank you so much.
 I have come to realize through Mr Olaku and Mr Kenny that art is spiritual and an artist can never survive without the supreme being.
I learnt from Mr Ejoh that without constant practice and craziness, you are not an artist yet
And from UCHAY Joel Chima, that studying voraciously and looking good will take you places in the art world.
I have also learnt from Mr Babatunde that the act of speech and manner of approach is very important in life after my brief misunderstanding with Miss Oluwafunke, an intern with Mr Olaku.
Life, is full of endless lessons and my 6 months I.T here in Lagos has taught me alot already and has changed my perspective about Art .
From today henceforth, I pledge allegiance to Art with all my heart.

...THE NIGHT WITH A THIEF

From the confines of my room, I could hear faint screams "ole! Onyeohi! Jide ya!' Outside the walls of my lodge.
It was a silent night; it was just the security men and myself in the compound since all my lodgemates were away for Christmas vacation. I was a little scared but very inquisitive to find out what was going on behind those walls, but I was a bit naustalgic to remain in bed and sleep till the next morning when I would finally travel back home.
There was light in the lodge, which was very unusual for the power holders. Nevertheless, the light gave me the morale to to find out what was really going on outside. I started to the security post just next to the gate, but their door was ajar without any of them in sight. They were Hausa men popularly called" aboki". They doubled as guards and cleaners. I searched their favorite spots but I didn't see them. On a second thought, I felt they went out to chase the thieves who were usually hungry Cameronians looking for empty student lodges to steal from. They always surrendered so easily when caught. Therefore, i felt they have gone to chase them.
As I opened the unbolted gate to look for the security men, the thief barged in on me unawares, stuffing my mouth with a 'dirty handkerchief' I suppose. He bolted the gate behind us and led us to the only lit room in the lodge which was mine.
I was really afraid of his next move. Thoughts of rape ran through my mind. I didn't even have the time or energy to soak in the shock but I managed to scrutinize my hostage when he threw me to my bed like some stuffed doll.
I coughed out the dirty stuff in my mouth and begged him not to harm me.
The non challant robber warned me not to scream else he would do his worse. He was with a pistol, but he slid it into his trouser pockets when he so how frightened I was.
He carelessly paced up and down my room checking his time while I looked on at this stranger like a lost wandering waif.
I kept surveying hid expensive Rolex watch of which he was checking, plus his heavy chain and this clothes. I was wondering how he got into this kind of lifestyle when I dozed off.


Thankfully,I was abruptly woken up from series of indescribable nightmares by my alarm clock @6am with the fear of the worst. I checked my clothes to see if the rubber has raped me like I see in NOLLYWOOD MOVIES, but nothing! I was so paranoid. The robber was not in sight too, neither were the security men. And the gate was still ajar as the previous night. I quickly ran into my room, showered and carried my luggage straight to the park after securely locking my room

ONITSHA ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY

My long vacation here in ALABA INT'L MARKET LAGOS, NIGERIA, has exposed me to the numerous endless release of our home videos every FLEETING SECOND.
While a large number of them are ruthlessly low-rated movies shot within one's native compound with uncountable characters that ends up making the storyline a flop; few others are highly rated cinema movies with few star studded characters interpreting a powerful plot so professional that it hurts to realize that both categories share the same prize tag under the same umbrella- NOLLYWOOD.
Should all our home videos be tagged NOLLYWOOD MOVIES???
As T. S Elliot would quote " Immature poets imitates, Mature poets steal, and bad poets defaces what they steal. Onitsha entertainers are just the later- BAD POETS-
Do they have all it takes to compete favourably in the foreign market or are we after being the only movie industry in the world with the highest turnout of movies each year?
I don't even know if to call it desperation or hustling that has created uncountable pirates, reshooting already existing movies, or retagging already existing movie titles, copying movie titles and plots from their foreign counterparts ( no originality anymore), shooting impossible and incredible stories that are even improperly edited and the worst of all, splitting a 40 minutes movie into 6 parts or more for gross profit.
My business mogul friend Mr Peters Chiemela calls it 'ONITSHA ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY' I never reasoned it until my one on one encounter with those hungry onitsha producers usually merchants doubling as directors and actors who managed to have a few connections and enough money dwindled from ambitious wannabe superstars, ruining and defacing an already flourishing business with poorly written scripts, half-baked actors, poor audio effects and a heavy lightening effects that could land a photo-epileptic patient in coma for good.
And even release a movie which a typical Nigerian toddler would never choose over TOM AND JERRY!.
Xoxo...

THE MORE WE LOOK, THE LESS WE SEE

The Myopic are partially sighted.
Even at that the eye-defectless claim they see everything without the aid of those grumpy glasses or contacts.
But how well can they interprete their clear vision?
The myopic scrupulously appreciates every spec of vision they seen because they know it's worth. They see even what the normals don't.
They have unwittingly developed this extraordinary vision described as blurry and concave by physicians and have inversely become veneers of visual culture utself.
Look what beautiful paintings they have created!
Behold their masterly written poems and proses!r
Their perceptions are incomparable.
For perfection amidst this world-tagged imperfections is a fate they have willfully and whole-heartly accepted and appreciated as a Gift!

SAY YES TO TURNING TABLES

Sometimes, conditions turn us to the light side of life. They spin us all the way to where they want, but it is up to us to vehemently insist on the brighter side.
We may not have it's control but we can choose it's steadiness and hold on to it

Life is beautiful only when we see circumstances as stages prior to our breakthrough. Our dreams, hopes and aspirations may die off like a burning strand of synthetic hair, but our ability to pick up it's ruins and transform it, makes life worth living for.
Every eye blinked, every knee jerked and every hiccup had, is a genuine reason to start afresh. It is a constant reminder that the tables are still turning.
Nevertheless, take advantage of your condition; call it beautiful and live it like it is, because life is what you call it.
Keep living the beautiful dream!!!

Xoxo...

HOW DO DREAMS COME TRUE?

'How do dreams come true?' I keep pondering...
I want to be a prolific writer like Chimamanda Adichie; a political activist like Omotola Jalade Ekehinde; a philanthropist like Chief Rochas Okorocha; a great artist like Leonardo Da Vinci whom i share the same birth date with (15th April) and a great chef like the popular CAKE BOSS aired on TLC...
How do we bring our dreams to reality ?  
       The sage says" a day begins a story" yeah! I know, I mean everybody knows that. How do we go about that story?     Moreover, there are over 50 billion people on earth who must have envisaged fame only to be left to dim in the shackles of their own dreams... Ironically, most famous people never dreamt of such popular oriels, but there they are! Am I alone in my thoughts of "how my dreams come true?" Or are there people like me too? I wonder!  Mhm..., those they have made it already or those whom we assume are already there, will tell us to practise consistently, with patience and perseverance... For Christ sales! How many unrealised dreams are 6 feet today? And how many more will leave the surface of the earth without achieving fame with their God given talents, let alone actualising them.                            
   Alright, how many of those pep talks by the so-called youth/women motivators have made people famous or at least changed the world's garment?      
I have come to realise that fame is not for everyone. I mean imagine it if everyone on earth were to be popular? Our news lines won't have commercial breaks anymore; soap operas would be endless; everyone becomes performers without spectators and audiences; our newspapers would be television box sized and very bulky and less appealing to read; numerous pop ups on the net to interrupt the ever endless streaming celebrity hot hosts from being read by interested viewers...  
  Imagine a world where everyone's dreams come true.   I imagine it, and I have arrived at a general conclusion that there would be anarchy! Even God himself would be bored because there would be no more status less people to pray to him ceaselessly, day and night #truetalk# I bet there is absolutely no one who does not desire status. I imagine fame becoming too monotonous that it becomes faceless. This amounts to the reality that only a handful out of ten thousand are born to be famous and this is not by birth, chance or connections, but by GRACE!!!

EUPHEMERAL LOVE

EUPHEMERAL LOVE

Distant Love

That's all she gets

For being such a silly shilly- shally loner.

And a difficult one

Rumour has it-

 she is a feminist

A gawky gay

An ogre

Who repulses her prey just at first sight

Thereby reducing them to dolts.

Superficially, she is an insouciant warlord

But inwardly, a coy princess.

Only the walls of her room can tell us about her tear moistened beddings and sobs

The content of her diary and her ever flowing ink.

Her entirety 

Alas, she is voluptuous

Hungry eyes can't resist

But they just stare from a distance

They dare not come close 

Else the barricade of fire around her may set them ablaze.

A LINGERING MEMORY

I was still in form
two in Saint Bridget's College, Aba, Abia State, Nigeria; a very young teenager  @ age 11, with a broad sense of curiosity when something really sick happened.

It was the usual compulsory night bath rituals after night prep and devotions.

I carried my 3 litre blue bucket to the large hall with wooden wornout windows that could barely lock which served as the bathroom, of course I met the senior students and the juniors having their bath already in turns. It got to my turn, so i unwrapped my then small self to expose my fairly developed breast and always clean shaved pubic region. I scooped up water from my bucket and lathered my body well. And all in a bid to return my soap in it's dish on the window sill amidst numerous others, I noticed the unlocked windows were quavering, as if there was a light wind in action, I ignored it since it was only normal. Next, I saw two pair of eyes struggling to see...

The last I could remember was myself on the floor of the slippery bathroom screaming "two eyes". All the well developed seniors in the bathroom ran for cover, while my bruised self was helped by the ladies who have barely anything to cover to clean me up and take me to my bunk.

The rest of the story was left to the rumour mongers and the musketeers back then in school. But those two boys were caught and expelled!

Being a prime witness was never funny then o. And right now, I even wonder what I was trying to hide when I dived for cover.

What if I dived to my own dead on that slippery floor???