Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Metaphysical Movement

2023; The MIT Press; Volume: 45; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1162/pajj_a_00662

1537-9477

Jelili Atiku, Akin Oladimeji,

Architecture and Cultural Influences

Nigeria’s foremost veteran contemporary artist, Jelili Atiku was born in 1968 in Ejigbo (Lagos), Nigeria. He received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, Nigeria, and a Master of Visual Arts from the University of Lagos, Nigeria. After training as a sculptor, Atiku has been working globally in performance art, beginning in the late 2000s, with installations now forming part of his artistic language. His major performance series, In the Red, focusing on wars and their aftermath, has been performed in several cities, including Tokyo, Copenhagen, Harare, and London. He was invited to perform at the 2017 and 2019 Venice Biennales and at institutions such as CCA Lagos, London’s Tate Modern, and Palermo’s Manifesta 12, where he led a processional performance addressing themes of migration, the destruction of the environment, and Yoruba myths and legends. Atiku has received a variety of awards and grants, including the Netherlands government’s 2015 Prince Claus Award. In 2021, he was included in Phaidon’s survey African Artists: From 1882 to Now. Part of this interview was recorded on September 4, 2022, when Atiku had just completed his performance ỌLỌ́MỌYỌYỌ, at the 2022 Aarhus Festival in Denmark, while other parts were conducted over email.■ What first sparked your interest in doing socially engaged art?It was due to my quest to intimately connect myself to my environment. Art has this power to reconnect and activate that special energy in humans, and I think for me as an artist it is crucial to use that tool effectively and directed to social issues and political use. I feel if you don’t talk about issues that affect you and you are silent, you are contributing to their growth that is dangerous. You know, for example, when you see someone doing an action that is full of injustice and you shut your mouth, you’re contributing to it. But when you talk about it, you share your energy and people tend to talk about it, and that can spark a reaction. Your work seems to have common elements with Joseph Beuys, specifically his concept of social sculpture. He was very keen on art being used to activate the public to generate a better form of spiritual consciousness and to elevate society. Do you believe that good art can be created that doesn’t adopt that kind of approach?If an artist is different from me and devises work that does not have a message, they have the freedom to do so. But as a Yoruba person, I understand that life itself is a process of accumulating knowledge for us to connect to all the energy around us. When I create my work, it is a process of connecting the beholders into the energy around them. That’s what I choose. I’m not going to impose onto the next person to do that. But I am an artist who looks at the sacredness of art. Art is not just created because you want to enjoy it as entertainment. I feel in a pure sense it is also created to connect the beholder to the artist. And at the end of it all, you increase the sensitivity of the beholder, as well as that of the artist. So if I choose to be more pure, in that perspective, it is my choice. Your question has to do with whether a person can create good art without giving a message. I don’t believe in the idea of good or bad art. It’s like saying the way that woman over there is jogging is wrong. Maybe she’s running the way she’s meant to run. Nobody’s going to tell me an artwork is bad or good. It’s an artwork, no matter what it is, you know, so you can’t tell a person to create how you want them to. I choose to do whatever I need to. That’s the freedom we enjoy as human beings. A lot of critics, a lot of art writers want you to work with their perspective. They use that to make ridiculous judgments about a work that doesn’t fit their preconceived notions. I know you worship the Yoruba Òrìṣhà, Yemọja. Can you explain who she is and what Yemọja worship consists of?Yemọja is an Òrìṣhà (god or goddess), which is one of the Yoruba deities. In the pantheon, she is a life-giver. She coordinates all the lives of humanity and is connected to water as she is the Òrìṣhà of rivers. Let’s look at it this way: every human being was once in a mother’s womb. In that biological process, where the human is formed, it lives in water. And that is the simple way of explaining the energy of Yemọja; she protects all life as the mother of the world. So that protection gives you the energy to live, and the worship of Yemọja starts from everyone accepting the fact that we are human beings and you have to protect life. That is the first thing. The second one goes into understanding what water means to you as a human being. By knowing that you begin to imbibe the essence of water, connecting to it and connecting to nature. The worship of it starts from venerating it and also doing Ìrúbọ for it. Ìrúbọ consists of taking things that fish can eat and humans can eat, then taking them as gifts that you throw into the water. This can happen at festivals where we dance and sing. The singing itself connects a devotee to the energy within and activates the power of action, and also makes us renew our connection to life. Which beliefs as a Yemọja devotee appear in your work?Let me start from this: One of the prominent and important beliefs as a Yemọja devotee is to have great concern for the growth of humanity, caring for humanity. When we’re talking about elements of my belief, there’s the recurring use of water. And also the recurrence of the feminine energy in my work, for example, when you look at the performance that I did at the 57th Venice Biennale on May 12, 2017, in which I performed with over seventy female fellow performers and volunteers who helped me activate the power of Àṣẹ in the performance and the installation. The context of the performance is about the Yoruba beliefs on the potency of feminine energy, body ritual, and ontology. It was therefore directed to serve as a point of reasoning and catalyst to the creation of utopia. Numerous of my performances have those elements that demonstrate my beliefs as a devotee of Yemọja. In Mama Say Make I Dey Go, She Dey My Back, Ọpọ́n-Ifá and Ìrọ́kẹ́-Ifá (Yoruba divination tray and wooden instrument for diving the future), calabash bowls filled with Ilẹ̀ (soil) and water were used as sacred elements and a way of utilizing indigenous Yoruba problem-solving resources. These elements were assembled to collaborate with the energies of the women who would bring about the manifestation of positive energy that brings healing. By walking in a procession at the Arsenale in Venice and carrying the Ọpọ́n-Ifá, Ìrọ́kẹ́-Ifá, and calabash bowls with soil and water, the women activated and released feminine power and alignment with Àṣẹ. I’m aware you’ve tackled the climate crisis through your work and you once mentioned that the Yoruba revere the environment. Can you elaborate on this organic approach to nature?I’ve done a performance project, Aláráagbó, which translated loosely into English means the body of the forests. It will take you into understanding some of the things the Yoruba revere, the philosophy and values the Yoruba have regarding nature. It starts with respect for nature: the Yoruba believe our connectivity, our connection to nature, should be unbroken. That nature is an extension of us and we are an extension of nature. So if anything happens to nature, it bounces back to us. The Yoruba also advise us to tread carefully on the earth because it’s the house we are dwelling in. It gives us food, it gives us medicine, it gives us a lot of things, and that’s why we need to be careful with it. That’s why they also make sacrifices, they also appease and pour libations on it. It’s important for the sustenance of humanity. There is the archetype of the artist who sees himself or herself as a shaman trying to cleanse society through art. In light of your activism, do you see yourself in that mold?Let me be specific here by citing the performance I did in 2016, which I titled Àràgàmàgò Will Rid This Land of Terrorism. I created the performance as a response to an obnoxious and traumatizing event that occurred in Ejigbo, my hometown in Lagos where three females who were accused of stealing pepper in the community market were arrested by self-styled security men of the local king, then tortured, molested, and sexually abused by inserting a concoction of chili powder mixed with strong local liquor in their private parts. The performance was therefore to campaign against international and domestic terrorism. In order to point out the silent personalities behind that event, I bring together Yoruba elements, such as Ọfọ̀/Àyájọ (sacred, charged Yoruba words), Ère Ìbejì (a wooden carving representing a deceased twin), a gong, and the use of black and red cloth, along with a processional walk that started at the Orìta-Mẹ́ta Ojú-Olúwa (the crossroads of the eye of God). The performance angered the king—to whom I was pointing as the enabler of local domestic terrorism—and he invited the police, lied to them, and ordered my arrest, along with my family members and even the audience for the performance. We were remanded in one of the most notorious prisons, Kirikiri in Lagos, for a few days, and faced rigorous judicial persecution for six months before the case was thrown out, due to the intervention of local and international arts and advocacy organizations. Is that why in the three performances I saw you in this year you were barefoot? Maybe you can explain what drives you to connect with the earth that way.Yes, you are right. Walking barefoot in my performances connects to the energy of the earth. The earth has vast energy that activates the body. Like I said earlier, this is why the Yoruba pour libations: to reactivate, or to connect with that energy. When I am barefoot, that strong energy surges into my body, and it activates my own actions. For instance, in the performance you referred to earlier, ỌLỌ́MỌYỌYỌ, I was carrying a heavy object representing Kori (the Òrìṣhà in charge of the welfare and growth of children in the Yoruba pantheon) during the procession. Being barefoot during that performance, and in others, is a simple way of connecting to my essence. It is the same way that the Yoruba also believe everything physical has its roots in the earth. It also passes information because the person you are communicating with is standing on the earth. And so it works as a channel transmitting a lot of energy, connecting with nature and with my audience. In two of those performances, you had a fellow Yemọja devotee collaborating with you. What do you feel she contributed?The Olórìṣhà who participated with me in some of my performances actually brought in their sacred personality, which brings a special energy into the performance. This energy helps to activate occurrences: for example, during ỌLỌ́MỌYỌYỌ, which you saw in Denmark, the bell in the arts center is rung by a hospital member of staff whenever a child is born. It means that there was a baby born on that day in the city. The presence of the devotee is to activate the power of Àṣẹ—it indicates the ability to bring into existence whatever one speaks—and actually activate the meanings of the performance. That was exactly what happened in the last performance in Denmark. There are works you have repeated, for example, the series In the Red. Would you say repetition is tied in with your Yoruba metaphysics in any sense?Let’s take this question in a simpler way. In the first instance, if things are repeated, we all know that it sinks into our subconscious mind and develops deeper roots there. But the Yoruba understand that repeating words makes it easier for things to manifest because repetition is connected to the power of Àṣẹ. It’s the same reason why I tend to repeat some of my projects. The idea is just to constantly be drawing issues into our consciousness and making the public understand that these issues need to be addressed, to catch our attention and open up critical discussion on them. In the Red draws on the human tendency to be violent. Every day, the issue of violence keeps reoccurring in every nation, in every society. That means that we need to be talking about it regularly. For example, in Nigeria, Boko Haram are constantly attacking and destroying lives, killing thousands of people. One needs to talk about it. You wear a red costume in each of those performances. What is the significance of the color red in Yoruba cosmology?Red, which is pupa in the Yoruba language, symbolizes strong power, strong energy—the powerful elements that sustain our life source and activate our own living. That is why the devotees of Ṣhàngó (the god of thunder and lightning) use it. Blood is red, but in my performances, it possesses a duality. The two aspects of the word refer to life and also to destruction. The essence of life and the context of destruction are contained in it. I use it like that in the more critical way for people to understand that when you tilt to the negative side of the word, it reveals violence.