Owanto, The Lighthouse of Memory, Go Nogé Mènè | La Biennale di Venezia 53

Memory Timeline
I was born in Paris in 1953, to a French father and Gabonese mother.
At the age of six I moved to Gabon, where my home faced the Atlantic
Ocean, and the beach was my limitless garden. I had the best
childhood and the most loving parents that a child could wish for.
I ran, swam and climbed trees with my brothers, Paul and Gilbert,
and my sister, Jeanne; I hunted, fished and played football with the
local boys. My boundaries were formed only by instinct, and a child’s
sense of good and evil. There was no crime or violence, and the people
who surrounded me were uncomplicated and kind. I awoke when
the sun rose, slept when it set, and felt that I was in communion
with Nature.
In 1960, President Léon M’ba visited my mother and father in
France, and spoke of the construction of a new world order. Following
the death of my French grandmother, Jeanne, my father
accepted the President’s invitation to live in Africa, and we moved
to Libreville, the capital of Gabon. This was an exciting time, as Africa
was emerging from colonial control, and was full of hope and expectation.
As the daughter of a humanist father and a Gabonese mother
who rejoiced in the decolonisation of Africa, I was raised with the
vision of a world with no limits.
My Gabonese grandmother, Agnorogoulé, who smoked a pipe, drank
rum and taught me to dance, soon became very special to me. She
had a pure heart and soul and, though physically blind, saw further
than most. From her I inherited a sense of the invisible and an awareness
of life’s magical qualities.
During these early years, I attended L’Ecole Sainte Anne and L’Ecole
Mixte. My friends called me ‘Café au Lait’ because of the colour of
my skin, or ‘Mamiwata’ because of my long curly hair. I was intensely
aware that I was of their world and of another world... simultaneously
one but different.
Following a year at school on the Ivory Coast, I returned to Libreville,
but soon had to leave secondary education, as money was
lacking. At the age of seventeen, I became the first air hostess for
Transgabon Airlines, now known as Air Gabon. This was an exciting
entry into the world of work, as it fulfilled my desire to explore the
planet and meet its people.
A year later, I left Gabon for England, and then moved to Madrid,
where I studied philosophy at the Catholic Institute of Paris. At the
same time, I embarked on a successful business career.
While living in Madrid, I formed a friendship with the talented Spanish
artist, architect, musician and poet, Fernando Higueras, who was
to radically change the course of my life. For three years, I lived
within the community of artists and intellectuals that surrounded
him, including Antonio López, Ricardo Vásquez, César Manrique and
Lucio Muñoz. As my own artistic spirit was awakened, I became disillusioned
with the world of business, and felt as though a new door
had been opened.
Now, in 2009, I am exhibiting my latest work in the Pavilion of the
Republic of Gabon, at the 53rd Venice Biennale. The curator is Fernando
Francés, Director of the Contemporary Art Centre of Málaga
(CAC Málaga), and the theme of the Biennale is ‘Making Worlds’.
When I told Fernando that I saw myself as a visual storyteller, he
helped me to articulate the evolution of my work, and to visualise its
African heritage more clearly. He could perceive, without doubt, the
return to my mother, and the role of Africa in my vision of the world.
He flicked a switch on the Lighthouse of Memory, and led me to the
image of the African tree house. Suddenly the pieces fitted together.
The photographs and signposts and light-boxes and slide shows combine
to tell a story of love and creation and humanity and hope.
In 1964, during the coup d’état against M’ba’s regime, my father
was injured by rebel forces. We were immediately placed under the
protection of the French military, and returned to France until the
crisis was over. I was reminded, again, of the disparate cultures that
formed my identity, and of the fundamental sense in which I blurred
those boundaries.
I always adored my father, and listened for the sound of his car each
evening, before running to meet him. We shared a love of reading,
and spent many hours choosing and discussing books. When he died, I
experienced an acute sense of emptiness, and shared with my mother
the violence of the loss. My sense of grief and separation were profound.
Years later, while in the care of nuns at my missionary school,
I began to question the purpose of existence: ‘Who are we?’ ‘What
are we?’ ‘Where are we going?’
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