As I followed the Google Map directions, taking me from my guesthouse across Paris on the Metro to the home of Saïdou Dicko, I was filled with excitement. I was buzzing at the thought of meeting the artist I’d been following on instagram since viewing his works at The London Art Fair in 2017. His distinctive collection of photos are all shot in Burkina Faso on his mobile phone and feature people from his village, whose identities have been protected by a thick coat of glossy black paint. These people I later discovered were ‘the shadowed people’, described so eloquently by Saïdou as ‘a human being transformed into a shadow by an artist who has had the chance to travel to several countries; [a] shadow that navigates a virtual world that has become so real that [their] reality has become virtual .’
These ‘Shadowed people’ who stand out against the backdrop of the vibrant yet humble scene of Burkinabe life, include: ‘the prince who reigns in joy... in spite of the obstacles of the daily life’; the child, happy and funny, surrounded by adults haunted by their glorious past and ; the capricious child with an angel face [their] days punctuated by tears, broken joys and unpaid claims.’
As I got closer to my destination, I saw the Eiffel tower in the distance. I stopped to take a photo to send to a friend who had had dreams of visiting Paris. I explained that I was on my way to visit Saïdou and how excited I was. He didn’t share my excitement. He was concerned about my safety. He thought it was dangerous to be visiting the house of a ‘stranger’ alone. Someone who I had never met in person before, only over instagram. I was undeterred. I was just feeling honoured at having been invited to see Saïdou’s latest works at his house. What my friend didn’t understand is that the contemporary African artists I admire are my celebrities. I arrived and was welcomed with a smile. I felt immediately at ease. We got talking over a bowl of dried mango and sesame cakes and I quickly felt at home. Feeling comfortable in Saiïdou’s home, I listened as his story started to unravel trying to ignore my desperate need to visit the washroom. But the urge became unbearable. Little did I know that I was about to enter an art enthusiast’s heaven; a place difficult to leave. The antithesis of a washroom, usually a place of necessity not awe and wonder. The brightly painted walls were adorned with various frames and canvases of paintings and photos. Amongst the collection, a photo of Saïdou and Malian photographer Malick Sidibé, I was in awe. Like a child reuniting with her parents after having been left in the toyshop to wander around alone, I excitedly fired questions about what I’d seen to Saïdou. As I lost my mind like a child desperate to know more about the works of art around me, he calmly answered my questions and offered to give me a brief tour of his collection around the house. The misalignment of my photos, a direct result of my giddiness.
We then got down to the business of seeing his latest works. He handled them with great care, wearing gloves to ensure they didn’t get any fingerprints on them. As he revealed each image, I interrogated him. I wanted to know about the process, the symbolism, the subjects; the raison d'etre and he responded to all of my probing with a smile on his face and passion in his voice. I listened attentively as he pointed out different features of his work; the black and red Fulani sign- his homage to his home- the use of local fabrics for backdrops, the presence of plastic, sometimes as waste and other times as a useful vessel for carrying water and the child subjects in his photos who were family members.
He explained how he used his phone to capture a snapshot of home, which was augmented with paint and the addition of digital imagery- creating a work of art, that I believe not only highlights the beauty of childhood experiences in his home, but causes one to interrogate their own privilege and perceptions when confronted with the contradictions of childhood in the developed world and the developing. The regally painted children in his photos, free from the magnetic pull of technology, lie, stand or sit, present, in the middle of a world they have no control over. A world of little ‘material goods’ and full of the waste products of the Western world; second hand clothes, single use plastic bottles and discarded bags and packaging. Their presence in their surroundings in contrast to that of children in the Western world, who are more often living in a digital world of consumption and idealism. The glossy black painted children which exude childlike strength, joy, confidence, creativity and serenity, are on plastic thrones, jerry can podiums, and on woven mats that rest on a bed of plastic waste. They’re hidden under a plastic basin, accompanied by peers or simply in the arms of a loved elder. Beautiful.
However, due to the sleek oil-like covering of their facial features, a kind of dichotomy between the visible and invisible is created alluding to a darker, more deeper interpretation of the emotions of the subjects beyond their bold stance.
In one vain their stances show boldness, presence and contentment despite the calamity or vapidness behind them. However, on the other, with the facial features blacked out, almost polluted the way an oil spill tarnishes water, one can be led to an interpretation of a feeling of vacantness, escape or loss. Such dissonance challenged me to consider what childhood was, and how it played out around the world, and more importantly how us as adults and me as a global citizen affected a child’s narrative. So much to think about.
That home studio visit left me brimming with so much joy and warmth. His humbleness was incredibly endearing and I was wholly thankful for the experience. What touched me the most was his efforts to honour his Burkina Faso home through his thought-provoking depictions of his place of origin . The Fulani shepherd turned Paris-based visual artist , ‘who has had the chance to travel to several countries’ still hailed home at the centre of his existence, supporting others through his donations to Nafoore Cellal Association. Highly commendable.
With this in mind, I am keen to open a new dialogue with Saïdou, one centred around his newer works of delicate water paintings of ‘The Shadowed People.’ sold to raise funds for his association in Burkina Faso ‘Centre de sante Nafoore’. I want to know why he chose this medium to continue the exploration of ‘The Shadowed People’. What messages about home does he feel can be departed by a painting that may have not been by the photographs. I want to interrogate him again about the symbolism of his imagery. What do the plastic water-carrying vessels with vibrant green vines sprouting out of them mean? Are these symbols of growth, new life and hope? If so, do they reflect these qualities innate in children or are they symbols of external hope, something being bestowed upon the child? These questions as well as why it’s so important for Saïdou to depict home in his images I hope to unravel in Creative Speak!
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