The artist is s/he who decides what his/her production is not a band of critics. Fixed definitions do not work in matters of creativity.

To the question as to who decides what art is or is not, answers should be geared towards a more flexible understanding of art. Art is not a fixed, specifically space-bound and color-bound concept. It is a boundary-transcending notion in the sense that what is viewed as art by a people A can be viewed otherwise by a people B and so on and so forth. In clearer terms, art only obeys a plural understanding. African art is not like European art and vice versa. It is that logic of differences that presides over the definition of art. Art is art so long as the producer says so and prompts argumentations that support compellingly his/her theses. NO ONE decides what art is and what is not. Everything is art. The only way to get out of the conceptual bog is to be open-minded and and more accommadative than we now are by simply letting people venture in their understanding something that a certain category of people in the academe hijacked, strait-jacketed and slotted in the specific geographic space. If the product of the imagination of a person is submitted to the scrutiny of one of the above-mentioned, they will simply outrule it for the mere reason that it does not originate from the mold art is supposed to be.

Happy Birthday Dad

13.09.2010




"Goodnight, mermaid," he told to me.
"Goodnight, Dad," I responded.
Before he closed the door completely, I held out a red colored box with a pink bow tied on top. "Dad?" I asked.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Happy birthday, Dad," I said, trying to show my smile.
"Thank you," he took the gift and unwrapped the box.
It was my poem, that took me almost two hours to make. He opened it up and smiled a little after.
"Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, mermaid."
I hid under the covers and closed my eyes, trying to avoid the light in the hallway.
I heard the air turn on and I felt the mixture of hotness and coldness, surround my body. The light in the crack on the bottom turned off. And all that was left was the light from the moon.
I closed my eyes, and lied down. I tried to go to sleep and make a lucid dream happen, but unfortunately, I couldn't fall asleep. I got out of bed, holding my Eeyore stuffed animal, and headed down the hallway.
I hear the loud snoring of my father. I knocked a soft knock and walked in. "Dad?" I asked innocently.
"Mmm…?" I could tell that he was a little tired.
"I can't go to bed," I opened my eyes wide, from the last nightmare I had.
He moved over and moved the blankets, assuring me that I could lay down in his bed.
"Thank you, Dad."
"Goodnight, mermaid."
"Goodnight, Dad," I started to feel my eyes getting heavy.
His bed was way comfy, too comfy to not sleep on it.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep, after hearing my father sigh.
''Happy birthday, Dad.''


13.08.1954-2009