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Careers<br />

The equal<br />

opportunist<br />

A tale of check- box culture<br />

By Josie Demuth<br />

Babatunde was tired of the dizzy, disappointing world<br />

of arts applications. Having graduated from Camberwell, he<br />

had been peeved to find himself working in the supermarket,<br />

Lindl, with just one solo show, which he had paid for at a<br />

for-hire gallery. Out of money, he had been about to give up<br />

and return to Nigeria, when something happened.<br />

The government’s Arts Board was under fire. No<br />

marginalized artists had been included in their prestigious<br />

awards, and upon further scrutiny, the media<br />

revealed that no funding had been made available<br />

either. It was all a shambolic whitewash, and the government<br />

could only respond by creating a whole new<br />

program for those on the periphery.<br />

A spark of hope ignited in Babatunde, and he submitted<br />

an application to “On the Edge” and crossed<br />

his fingers for one of the lucrative grants it offered.<br />

To his delight, a letter arrived from the Arts Board,<br />

and he held his breath as he opened it. Babatunde’s<br />

heart sunk. He had not been successful. His work was<br />

described as “unable to ignite the inspiration sought.”<br />

But his work had been a set of classic English<br />

portraits, embellished with Nigerian coins. It was<br />

symbolic of the two cultures colliding to become one.<br />

To make matters worse, Babatunde’s Lindl supermarket<br />

branch was closed, leaving him jobless and<br />

almost instantly in debt. He returned to his “On The<br />

Edge” application. Could it be he was not marginalised<br />

enough? Well then, perhaps he could change this.<br />

He resubmitted his application, ticking the box<br />

“ethnic minority” as before. This time, however,<br />

he also struck the squares next to “disabled” and<br />

“homosexual.” He clicked “send” and reclined in his<br />

broken desk chair. He could already feel a sudden<br />

turn of the wheel.<br />

2.<br />

MANY MONTHS LATER, Babatunde reclined in<br />

his state-of-the-art wheelchair. His paintings were<br />

being hung across the light, spacious gallery, and<br />

curators and gallerists fussed about him like mother<br />

hens.<br />

“Put that one over there!” ordered Petunia, the head<br />

of the Arts Board. “It’s the most distinctive piece. It<br />

screams out Babatunde’s struggle.”<br />

Babatunde stuck up his thumb at the skinny<br />

brunette. It was an old piece from his for-hire gallery<br />

show, squashed in transit. Petunia seemed to<br />

be drawn to its trampled effect, her <strong>sm</strong>all, grey eyes<br />

glinting upon its unveiling. It was reminiscent of his<br />

treatment, as a multi-challenged individual, she said.<br />

This was his fourth solo show in a high-profile<br />

gallery. In just a year, he had become one of London’s<br />

most celebrated artists. A symbol.<br />

33

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