Where artists work

We've taken to organizing field trips, a colleague and I, to see places where artists work around Bamako. The Conservatoire  was an interesting study in architecture. The school suffers a bit from a bad reputation around town, but the place itself is quite grand. We were surprised to see students on the grounds, though many less than could be accommodated.

A visiting couple from France were on hand to offer a workshop, which likely led to the ambiance in the visual art department. Students filled one of the well lit rooms, their drawings taped to the wall and others spilled out into the hallway, lining the corridor as they surveyed their work. The project theme was something about a city on the head. Students had imagined various hats depicting their ideas of a city. Pencil drawings were taped above current images being completed in color pastels. The final stage of the project involves turning these drawings into 3D sculptures that can actually be worn.

While it was clear this was student work, some were quite intriguing. Ideas varied from futuristic cities with cubist design to traditional Malian village scenes with a twist. One of my favorites showed a veiled desert inhabitant with a hat of elongated buildings in the Djenne mosque style.

The French teacher struck up a conversation with us about exhibit space. It seemed she had done this workshop in previous years and was once again looking for the perfect spot to showcase the final works. After the rest of our tour, I reflected on this request as somewhat curious.

The Conservatoire also includes a spacious performance building with stage and lights- surely enough room to host a beautiful exhibit of student work. There is a restaurant on campus and plenty of outdoor space to create a cafe like atmosphere. I wondered why the campus itself wouldn't be the perfect showcase choice.

Part of it may be due to the secluded location. In order to access the Conservatoire, you must pass just outside of town, up a winding hill and down a long, albeit marvelously paved, road. But as a strategy for increasing the reputation of the school and garnering public interest, I would think they would be doing everything they could to have events and highlight the place.

We must have lingered a bit too long, talking and eyeing the student work because we lost our guide here. But we were happy enough to wander around the rest of the campus peeking into doorways and generally intruding on anyone we found working. There was a department for music and some students could be heard practicing jazz or classical piano. The dance building hosted room after room of empty studios. Several students were in the main rehearsal space, accompanied by a few djembe drummers. It was all very tame and subdued. The space was built to accommodate a greater number of students and so it appeared empty despite the activities going on.

Peering out of one of the upstairs studio windows gave us a view of a group of students clustered in an outdoor gazebo, possibly painting. An administrator or two were tucked away in offices and a group of men sat under a tree in deep discussion.  A teacher preparing his lessons was discovered in a drawing room filled with easels and incredible light.

The potential seemed apparent, though the reality still has a bit of catching up to do.

Our second trip to visit Abdoul, an artist and theater designer, was in stark contrast to the large buildings and open campus of the Conservatoire. Like many artists, Abdoul works out of his house, though he also mentioned a much larger space just outside the city. His neighborhood was lively and filled with children in the streets and teens huddled together outside their houses, sitting in chairs or hanging around motorcycles.

His studio was intimate, a collage of covered and open outdoor space, filled with canvases, sculptures and random theater props all in various stages of completion. There were power sanders- for making organic pigments- his current passion. And of course, the stones and bricks ready to be sanded down into painting material. There were also industrial sized buckets of acrylic paint used to bring form and light to the burlap backdrops. The technical section included computers and tablets,  and wires of all sorts. He showed us various film clips, both finished and in progress, both financed and on-his own.

He is currently working on a Christian theme, a client request. But he has become enthralled by the use of gold leaf paper and monochrome palettes and imagines taking the theme further to a juxtaposition of religious ideology.

Abdoul talked about the elements of creating his art- the late night hours when the neighborhood is quiet, the effect of light to change a work completely. He even demonstrated for us using several of the stage lights he had installed along a ceiling support. A few were also laying around the ground in easy reach.

It was a place of creativity and action. A place of conversation, with low chairs,  elaborately carved thrones and abstract figures that doubled as possible seating. We were there for hours listening to a summary of his work, his artistic philosophy and his current projects.

It is a constant fascination of mine to learn how these artists become successful. Often a chance meeting leads to one connection or another that leads to a project. Other times an embassy will be in direct contact, requesting specific work, or a gallery owner will stop by with an idea in mind, only to discover new dimensions that were unknown before. And viola, a new project is born.

Abdoul spent several years traveling and working with some of the greats in filmmaking and art. He is accomplished and successful and feels better staying home now. He creates because he must and he is dedicated to seeing through some of his own ideas for telling the history of Mali through fiction films that allow him to use his talents for costume design and setting.

It's the struggle of artists everywhere. Finding the balance between making art of your own creation and providing others with their desire. Financing is always necessary which often means compromise.

We seemed to have come full circle- visiting an artist at this stage of his career. It was interesting to compare to our earlier visit to designer Chiek Diallo, another long time, successful artist and to remember the young students at the Conservatoire, to imagine  how one might evolve in their own artistic journey to this point of confidence and conviction.

Parallel settings

There are two ways to deal with the sand. One is to try and clear it away, effectively creating a small but wide hole to accommodate your feet. The other method is to try and smooth the sand into a smooth, flat area while deceiving yourself into thinking you have a solid surface to dance on. Either way, you end up with a combination of mounds and valleys that tip your center of gravity and throw you off balance. Or at least that's how it happens for me.

I've begun my study of Malian dances at a small art center just outside of town. It can take anywhere from 40 min to an hour to get to, depending on traffic. Unlike my Abidjan dance trips, which I was able to segment into interesting portions, there's really nothing interesting about the ride. Unless you count the kaleidoscope of street sights- from donkeys to cows to motorcycles and motorcycle carts, along with pedestrians and people sitting outside their storefronts.

It's a dusty ride and everything appears in hues of sienna. The million motorcycles on the streets of Bamako has resulted in a million and ten moto repair shops, which cover everything in a deep oil black. The most exciting part of the journey is the ride back, the first portion being on a moto. I am not ready to brave the paved streets on a bike, but since the dance center is nestled deep into a side village, taking a moto is really the only way to get back to the main road. From there, I hail a cab and begin the nighttime journey home. It is a mesmerizing spectacle of motorcycle lights weaving in and out of traffic and dark silhouettes flying across the road.

The dance itself is familiar, which is not necessarily an asset I am discovering. My muscle memory is strong and my body is ready to complete a familiar beginning with an anticipated ending. So, not only am I learning a new step, but I must first unlearn the old one. It is interesting to observe how the body works in this way. To feel the conflict between what I know I should do and what my muscles want to do out of habit.

This first month in Mali has left me drained. I've been ill of one sort or another and it shows in my dance. I am heavy and slow. I cannot lift from the floor and I am tired after class. My body is aching. I am hoping to conquer this soon enough, but time is ever the battle. And there's the sand. Eventually it will make me stronger, lighter, faster, but for now it is a battle of it's own.

The space itself is enjoyable. The parcel is filled with interesting rocks, reminiscent of the volcano rocks of Congo in their size and ability to generate an impression. However, the Mali rocks are large and porous, red-black with Swiss cheese type holes creating texture and intrigue. Neighborhood kids come to watch and a collection of random guys (only random in the sense that I don't know who they are or how they are connected to the center.) often float in and out, sitting in chairs near the back wall, not necessarily watching, more likely fiddling on their phones or drinking tea.

It is like a parallel universe to the Tarmac of Kintambo. A theater group practices here, too. And with the kids in and out, it's a lively place. I notice this as I move from country to country. The artists living in parallel worlds. Outdoor studios with tin covered roofs and lights strung across the interior. A space for chairs sits mostly empty until performance time.  Places of entertainment and education for the youth, who come to fulfill their curiosity.

Even the Center Francais, where I ended up one evening to watch a musical group - Kangaba Mopti, which are two towns in Mali, a fitting name as the band took us on a musical tour of languages, styles and regions- even the center Francais seems to function within the law of parallel settings. An intimate theater, featuring big names and up-and-coming artists, with a small pool of integrated dancers and musicians who can be seen hanging around networking or getting ready for their next show. I even ran across someone from the Kinshasa institute. Much like international teachers, the staff of the institute can travel from country to country as positions open up and desire calls for a new experience. And yet, the structure remains.

Intersecting circles. Patterns of existence. I see it again as the founder of Don Sen Folo takes the stage and practices his contemporary dance routine. The moves, I've come to identify as African contemporary dance, are not exactly familiar, not in the repeated sense, but there is a base that is reminiscent of other African dancers I have seen. If I am not careful, it is easy to mistake where I am. Time and place become muddled. Language has once again taken on the musical quality. I recognize words and syllables but meaning escapes me. For a moment, I feel a convergence - Guinee, Congo, Cote d'Ivoire, Mali. Places where artists create, develop and display. Synchronicity. It is beautiful.

This Saturday, I arrived a bit early to repetition. (Class seems like a big word since we are only 2, sometimes 3.) The theater group was preparing for their performance the next day. A group of kids had gathered to sit in their usual place on the rocks. Despite the language barrier, I was able to grasp a sense of the humor (theater crosses barriers, too, hey? exploring concepts of being human) and drama they were portraying. Really delightful. And then the actors dispersed, leaving only one woman on stage. She began storytelling, with the traditional call and response. The children knew exactly when and  how to respond. I felt like I was witnessing a dying tradition. With nothing more than a stage of sand, the storyteller was able to transport me to a village night complete with firelight and excitement.

My taxi driver home that night seemed to agree. He'd traveled a lot (we spoke some Lingala together and reminisced about the liveliness of Kin) and suggested the traditional dances were being lost in Mali. In the north, it is due to extremists prohibiting expressive arts. Even the tradition of dancing for the field workers is no longer allowed. And in the cities, people are moving away from the traditional arts in favor of more Western styles - or abandoning the arts altogether.

Mali is a country that had a strong tourist trade. Such rich history and vibrant culture was an asset. The recent terror attacks and political uncertainty has led to a decline in the tourist industry, forcing many artists and cultural groups to take a few steps backward, to look for "day jobs" and invest their time in alternate methods of revenue.

This story is not unique to Mali, if the details may be. Congo isn't suffering from outside terrorist attacks. Their terror stems from within. The results are similar. And while it could be argued the US is currently battling a terrorist minded president, there's no doubt his fight is an economic war against the arts and culture.

Parallel settings. Similar outcomes. Perhaps there is a parallel universe where the inhabitants have recognized the power of the arts and things are working in the absolute reverse. Instead of studio shells filled with artists struggling to bring their creative efforts to fruition, communities have thriving arts centers that are the focus of evening entertainment and lively gathering places. Ideas and energy are exchanged and creativity is born. The adults serves as masters to apprentice teens while the youngest children look on and absorb. Art is not a secret tradition to be coveted and mourned as it fades into a slow death; it is a public priority and communal celebration of life. In a parallel setting, surely it exists.

It's great to be dancing again- Bamako

Theater group practicing with an audience of children

 

One of these motos will ferry me to the road after class

 Neighboring balcony usually
hosts 1 or 2 viewers from afar

Evading the Principal's Office with a Good Rain

He lifted his hand to his chin, where his mouth had fallen open, and shook his head in disbelief. He didn't close his eyes for the final dramatic touch, but he didn't need to. I was already afraid. The only thing that could save me now was a good rain. As of this writing, I'm still waiting.

For weeks I'd been noticing the large cement wall of the basketball court. One side faces in to form a cozy covered court area leaving the outer side exposed to the playground. It is one of the first things you see when coming down the hill towards the gym. It has about 2 meters of rocks between it and a smaller, mid sized wall. The rocks and the low wall make it an inviting place for kids to have a snack and play a few games with friends. It's also part of the rounds I make during my recreation supervision duty. I noticed the wall for two reasons.

First because a huge empty wall is just the kind of thing I notice. I imagine murals and graffiti and hours of painting fun. I see themed scenes and random designs, large splashes of color and inviting patches of texture.

Second because the wall is attractive to kids, too. I'd been watching them try to scratch designs onto the surface with the little pebbles scattered about. A huge box of colored chalk in the 'reserve' had caught my eye. The artist in me wanted to nurture the artist in them. So I sought permission to bring out some colored chalk and let the kids draw. "Sure," the director said amicably enough. "And a good rain will just wash it away, right?"

That was last week. Today was my first opportunity to try it out. I didn't have much more of a plan than putting the chalk in a bucket and handing it out. Collect it at the end. I did have enough sense to remind them they were at school and to encourage "jolie chose."

I'd forgotten how much they like to write their names and tag each other. While I'd been imagining flowers, animals, houses and people, they were all busy making the dreaded 'S.' A few did manage to sneak in some pretty cool cartoon guys and complex design patterns but they were mostly lost amidst the writings and scribblings of 30 or  40 kids.

The dreaded S. Why do kids
everywhere think it is so cool?

I invited a few girls from my class to begin and another teacher on duty quickly told them to stop.  I went to let her know I had gotten permission from the director. She acquiesced but didn't really seem to believe me. The students' reactions also bordered on panic. A few came to "tell" on their peers or let me know they'd asked them to stop, but no one was listening. In fact, it did begin to seem like we were doing something wrong. Kids swarmed by the dozens to get some chalk, many with mischievous grins on their faces. A small delight in breaking the rules. When the guy who shares my post came around the corner to check out the commotion, saw the wall and did the whole head shaking, hand to chin thing, I started to get worried.

Though both the director and I had thought it seemed like a good idea at first, I had to admit the wall was pretty much a mess. It wasn't clean or neat or remarkable in any way. Kids had chalk all over themselves, on their white shirts and their hands. They were grinding the dust into everything they could find. A completely unstructured wreck.

I began to think of how I could have made it better. I could have said only pictures, or given a theme "circles and squares," perhaps, the theme of our upcoming school art show. I could have limited the number of artists or chosen only 2nd grade girls, who are particularly good at doodling. They would have made something beautiful. I began to wish for rain. Only rain could save me from having to take responsibility for the monstrosity.

Just after the recreation I went to meet a group of students I am working with on a theater piece. Inside their classroom I saw snowmen decorating the walls. The backgrounds alternated between pastel blue and pastel green.  White snow dots were falling from the sky. They were neat and clean and sterile. Every one looked just like its neighbor. It struck me then that this was what the school seemed to be about. Being neat and clean and not too different from your neighbors.

I hadn't set out to make a statement with the chalk. Sure, I could have organized a more cohesive piece, or even a piece of artwork, but I hadn't set out to do that either. I just wanted to open up some expressive opportunities for those creative types. The ones not found on the basketball court or the soccer field.

I've since spent a lot of time pondering the other adults' reactions, wondering if everything needs to be structured and beautiful or if there are times when kids can just be kids. I know there are. I know I believe in free play and boredom and imagination.  I believe in learning by exploring and discovering and doing. And I don't think the end result is necessarily the most important part of creating art. So why do I feel so guilty? The other  question I can't seem to answer, will I do it again on Thursday?

I guess it all depends on whether I get called in to the principal's office and how soon it rains.

What I imagined vs what it felt like

Our sweet school

A few years ago I had that year as a teacher, the one that makes you reconsider your professional choice and start to view taxi driver as a pleasurable alternative (if you've been reading for any length of time or if you actually know me, then you know that I do aspire to be a taxi driver someday....really.) It was that year when the students and I did more than just not click, we got on each others nerves in a most annoying and terrible way. We pushed every single button and never gave an inch. Every day I felt like a comedian bombing on stage. And every minute I expected the kids to grab some Apollo style brooms and sweep me from the front of the classroom amidst a chorus of boos and shouts. It was the year that makes you want to run for the hills and never come out again. Every single day. For 180 days. Sometimes even the weekends aren't enough to make you feel safe.

I didn't quit teaching, however, and continue to enjoy most parts of my job. This year began in a most promising way -I finally had the dream schedule with all of my favorite subjects. I am teaching art, literacy and social studies. I have a variety of classes and grade levels. I even have enough time in my day to prep for art. And my partner teacher was pretty easy to talk to, fun to exchange ideas with and get helpful feedback from.

Until it all changed. And so drastically that for several weeks just getting up to go to school was a Herculean effort. I couldn't fall asleep at night for replaying events of the day and hashing over conversations- you know the kind, when you insert all the logical things you wish you'd said in the moment and responded with clarity and wit rather than confusion and anger.

Its calmed down a bit - in that tense sort of left on my own kind of calm. I miss the collaborating, the collegiality and the sense of being useful and purposeful in my job. I'm not exactly clear why it all went wrong, though there have been lots of insights that have helped me to accept the situation (mostly) without animosity.

This week is Arts Week at our school and in keeping with tradition a group of teachers has teamed up to plan events for the week. In the elementary we have developed monthly learning celebrations (our version of the old "school assembly")  and so I have found myself in the midst of planning, coordinating and preparing for a different kind of art experience for our students to discover every day this week. Its a lot fun. I like thinking with others, problem solving, and developing ideas to their most creative potential. Even trying for crazy at times. Just enough outside the box to make a regular old event really wacky.

It's given me time to realize what I really do love about our school. We've had the chance, as teachers, to create worthwhile, innovative and meaningful experiences for our students. Every month they get a chance to show off what they know and to apply the concepts they are learning in the classroom to celebrations and fun events. We have the math fair with booths and activities centered around math concepts created by students. There is the All School Read and Author's Assembly when kids have a chance to respond to books and write their own to share. We have Leap into Science when kids get to think like scientists and dig deeper into the many realms of science in the real world. There is Arts Week and International Week. There is plenty of dancing, singing, creating, building, thinking, puzzling and laughing. It just feels good to celebrate learning.

And so, despite the challenges of this year, I think I can still leave with sweet memories of the little community school we have created.

Home Depot

Once upon a time I had a junk drawer filled with bits and pieces of inspiration. Nuts and bolts and rocks. Little things useful for nothing and yet, useful for everything. I knew then, somewhere back in an old, old post you can find it, I knew it would be one of the things I missed. Little things to pick up and create something else entirely with my hands.

Because we are all stuck here in Kinshasa this summer, it's just my hands that get restless. And this sense of failure that I can't entertain my boys. There are plenty of websites that say- it's good for kids to get bored- to create games of their own and find a solution to occupying themselves. I believe in this. I believe in made up games and inventions. I believe that life is not a circus and the greatest asset is having skills. Some kind of passion and motivation that moves you to create and design and develop to keep the mind occupied and the hands busy. Sure enough, sometime around 2 o'clock this afternoon they let me know they were going "spying." They donned their best gear and went out into the world armed with their imaginations, ready to fight the good fight against the imaginary bad guys- not the electronic ones.

Once upon a time I did the same thing. We were a small group of neighborhood kids. We loved to play Transformers. Apparently the Transformers are still around. I marvel at the things that still exist. The movies that continue to be remade, the music that just incorporates sounds from my youth as opposed to creating new sounds. I've heard the quote, from somewhere, here perhaps, something about everything being a remake. It;s impossible for artists to have truly new ideas. But still, I am left with a sad feeling, when I hear songs from my 8h grade prom folded into the newest remix. I guess, in the end, it makes me feel closer to my kids. We can still listen to the same music, no need to hide behind teenage closed doors. Not yet, hopefully never.

But once upon a time,  I was a person who started a business. Drifting Woods. And I scoured the banks of the reservoir, picking up bits and pieces of wood, fashioning them into lamps and tables and boxes. I can't remember who that person is, that shamefacedly tried to sell bits and pieces of nothing, no solid craft behind her, boxes with crooked edges and hinges slightly off. I had power tools at my disposal and Home Depot. I miss Home Depot. Home of the entrepreneur. I had a love of art and belief in myself that I can't quite remember now.

Instead, I am left to question what it means to be white in Africa. Because, while I've always questioned what it means to be American. I am not sure I have ever really examined what it means to be white. It's on every Black kids list, African or not. What it means to be black. If you ask students to make a list of who they are, inevitably the black kids write Black and the white kids write nothing.

But I have a friend who told me in her seventh grade year she set out for two goals, to lose weight and to understand what it means to be Black. Most white kids never go through this. Identity seeking on the basis of skin color. White kids just don't think that way. In America.

In Africa, you get a chance to be the minority. To be white. And to feel the frustration of why you can't just drive down the street without being a target, why you can't just go shopping and get a fair price, of why all the artists call you up and want to meet with you. Second guessing, every single minute, what do they want from me? Friendship? Advantage? Connection? Prestige?

Because, being white in Africa, is never just about being in Africa. It's always about second guessing. Never really being sure.  And I guess it's just the equivalent of being Black in America. You never really know what's about skin color, what's about economic status, what's about who you truly are. Everyone should experience it. The frustration, the doubt, the constant worry about what is real versus what's imagined. Being a foreigner in a strange land- and caring about it. Not just a tourist, but someone who lives there.

Because this is us now. Living here, in Kinshasa, no vacation to fly off to, no family to go visit and welcome us with loving, open arms. How we missed you. Nope. We are just here. And I miss the hardware store. Because at the end of the day, making a cozy home, with painted walls and fun fixings is what gives comfort. Traveling down to Victoire and haggling with prices three times the worth only reminds me - I'm white in Africa.

I suppose the only thing that can help me is the language. I understand it but can't yet speak it. A summer project perhaps. It will go a long way to helping me navigate the outside stalls and road side venues  that serve as our version of Home Depot. And right now, I really need a good good hardware store.

what i could have written about but didn't

completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences.   i could have written about

• a dancing pig
• the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school
• how completely unimportant and meaningless my own personal life felt after reading that article
• oatmeal raisin cookies, homemade ice cream and teaching couple from sudan
• the 10 year old girl filled with emotion who thought her cousin was involved in congo's abusive tin mining practices
• chocolate banana cookies, homemade frozen yogurt and a neighbor
• malian women refusing their own right to speak for themselves and be educated
• the 4 year old who had an entire building of children repeating his sing song words (yes, that would be my four year old.....he's got a gift--- of some nature)
• the conservative right, as found everywhere here in drc and the vast approaches i've developed to respond and interact with them on a daily basis
• emotional uncertainty and psychological imbalance...as experienced here in drc on a daily basis (oh wait, i think my last post was about that...)
• the huge wedding? or other event held just around the corner, creating thrilling traffic scenes as drivers hauled their oversize camions into alternate lanes despite oncoming traffic (no worries, accident averted...i had at least 2 inches between my mirror and theirs)
• insects and the complete annoyance and final tolerance of finding them absolutely everywhere, surely i've eaten more than a few....am i still a vegetarian?
• the process of creative (or written!) art and how the end result often does not match our emotional journey nor our aesthetic preferences.........

Basically, I could continue but won't.
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes