Enuma Okoro - Learning to see

Magazine for Market and Communication
Learning to see
Author, Curator, Philosopher: The World of Enuma Okoro > p. 32
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Estonia’s President on
Putin, Press and Propaganda
> p. 8
Jude Kelly CBE:
A vocal «WoW»
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TEAMBBDO:
Re-Thinking
the Network
> p. 94

32
CULTURE
Learning
to see
Her «The Art of Life» column has become a favorite
among readers of the Financial Times, as Enuma Okoro –
author, curator and philosopher extraordinaire –
teaches them to see the world differently.
A conversation about the power of perspective.
By Johannes Hapig
Illustration: Sam Rodriguez.

33

34
M&K Enuma, when I read you weekly
«The Art of Life»-column in the Financial
Times, the most frequent effect it
has on me that I get a sense of a …
different perspective: on culture, on
society, on life. Would you subscribe
to my assessment that you’re enabling
readers to «see differently»?
ENUMA OKORO Well, there indeed is sort
of an … an implicit goal, or a question
with which I approach many of my
texts: «How can I get us to think about
how we see, and consequently, how
we live?». All too often, we quickly
assume that we have a handle on
things; we jump to conclusions about
those around us or the human condition
in general. I’m trying to get people
to re-examine their perspectives and
perceptions – if you, as a reader, say
that I achieve that goal, I think that’s
wonderful. Because that’s how I move
through life: with a sense of curiosity
and a willingness to reconsider. Embracing
curiosity, paired with the
aforementioned willingness, can make
one more open to listen to people’s
stories with more patience, to approach
them with more humility and
more hospitality. And that, in turn,
hopefully increases one’s curiosity …
it’s sort of a «chicken and egg» thing, if
you will (laughs).
Your interest in people’s stories is
crucial for your work, for it revolves
around the narratives we share. It
revolves around «connection». And
not just between human beings, but
«How can I get us
to think about how we see, and
consequently, how we live?»
also between human beings and other
parts of creation – nature, animals, and
the realm of the spiritual … but before
we dive deeper into these topics, let
me ask you: Do you recall when the
broader concept of «connection»
became important to you?
That’s an interesting question – but one
that is hard to answer. I can’t pinpoint
exactly when I started thinking the way
I do, and there may well be several
factors that all come into play. One is
that I remember having been fascinated
with what surrounds us, with life,
and with the idea of what lies beyond
… well, basically since I was a little girl.
That’s part of my spirit, part of how I
was created. I grew up in a Catholic
family, and I vividly recall the Sundays
on which my parents would take me to
church: the stained, colorful glass, the
seemingly magical element of sacraments
and all the art, and my imagination
running wild. The whole story was
mind-boggling to me. Not only did I
believe that holy water was, indeed,
holy – and that touching it would «do»
something with me – I also believed
that what i understood as God lived in
the back of the church. (laughs) Whenever
the altar boys came out to prepare
the service, in their black-andwhite
gowns, I tried to catch a glimpse
«...the stained, colorful glass, the seemingly
magical element of sacraments and all the art,
and my imagination running wild.»
beyond the door they would step into
the church from. Was God sitting
behind that door, taking a peak at the
congregation? Catholicism, however,
wasn’t the only narrative that fed my
interest. I was an avid reader; I devoured
books about mythology, be it
Greek or Roman – about fairytales,
about legends from all corners of the
earth. The second factor that certainly
played an important role in shaping
my thinking is having grown up in
different countries, on different continents.
And just like children do, I took
it all in quite naturally. When we
moved around, I had to find my place
in each new place – which made me
become extremely conscious and
aware of my respective environments. I
would notice differences, but would
look even closer for similarities. And
the third factor – is a bit of a combination
of the above: Living in Nigeria, in
Ivory Coast, in Tunisia … I always felt an
underlying sense of unity, of seamlessness
between humans and the rest of
the natural world. Some of our homes
had large verandas, with doors opening
to large gardens, and when we
forgot to close these doors, lizards
might slip in. That was nothing to be
alarmed about; that was just – a part of
life. So, all things considered: My
parents never tried to control my
imagination, but helped me to further
develop it, while I was also shaped by
the experiences I made moving
around a lot. Imagination and experience
at a young age – that’s an essential
part of what makes us who and
what we are. And that’s why we need
to encourage our children to indulge
in both, don’t you think?

35
Earnest and playful at the
same time: Olafur Eliasson’s
ice blocks in front of
London’s Tate Modern and
Yayoi Kusama’s «Pumpkins».
His «Spot Paintings» brought British
artist Damien Hirst international fame.
The work of generations: «Human
Castle» by Wonder Buhle Mbmabo.
Images: shutterstock.com / Instagram @wonderbuhle / Gagosian.
I agree. Aristotle would say that
children are the greatest philosophers
– because they still have a sense of
wonder.
Exactly.
But many people lose that along the
way – and then, they yearn for it, often
without really knowing what they’re
actually yearning for. They’ve forgotten
how to stop and wonder. They’re
not connected with the world in a way
that satisfies them. To them, perhaps,
your texts also are a reminder of what
life … could be? What it maybe used
to be, but is no more?
Well, as for the last part of your question:
I don’t believe in idealizing the
past. There was never an «Edenic»
point in history. Each age has and had
«I don’t believe in
idealizing the past.
There was never
an ‹Edenic› point
in history.»
its own problems, trials and tribulations.
What I do think is that – and this
is where we get to the first part of your
question – the efforts and achievements
of science are invaluable but I
do think we lose something when we
downplay the value of other ways of
knowing. Logic and rationality are so
held up as the «pure» ways of gaining
knowledge – while we downplay the
value of the poetic, of beauty, of the
spiritual … of feelings! The very notion
of «feeling something» and expressing
it is frowned upon, sadly, and I’d like
my texts to be a reminder … not of
idealized times gone by which never
really existed, but a reminder that it is
okay – and valid – and wonderful – to
feel. Don’t you think that we betray and
cheat ourselves when we bifurcate that

36
«Don’t you think that we betray
and cheat ourselves when we bifurcate
that and assume that science is more
valuable than art and creativity?»
and assume that science is more
valuable than art and creativity? And is
there any value in this bifurcation, is it
at all necessary? They need each other.
And actually at times I would claim
they can be one and the same thing.
They’re – to use the term again – inseparably
connected, and they co-exist to
help us grasp life in all its variety. Does
that sound a bit esoteric? (laughs)
Not to me, I agree with you completely.
I studied philosophy and
literature, and I remember friends of
mine going into business or law –
thinking that it would make their life
easier; that they’d always find a job
while I’d probably have a hard time
doing so. That’s where the bifurcation
begins – as if working in a bank and
reading Byron were mutually exclusive.
Perhaps that’s why «Poetry on the
Subway» – where they put poems on
posters in subway trains – is such a
great concept. It’s a temporary bridge
between fields that should never have
been separated to begin with. I mean, I
live in New York City, and our subway
system … it’s extremely unclean and
often crowded and hot, combined with
the frenetic energy that New Yorkers
have. To be in the midst of that, and to
then spot a poem – it’s like a thing of
beauty…
…that’s something I can imagine you
writing about!
Yes, because it’s a microcosm of so
many of the things we have just mentioned.
Existences overlapping briefly;
individuality and community; pollution
or the less pleasant moments of life
and the moment of surprise when a
beautiful work of art pops up … that is
a great metaphor for our lives, isn’t it?
Life is often challenging and even ugly,
yes, but there are threads of beauty
laced throughout it, and we must focus
on them in order to not give in to the
ugliness and the fatigue and despair
that can come with it. Beauty is a
pathway to hope – beauty in a very
broad way, not just in the sense of that
which is aesthetically pleasing – so we
mustn’t fail to catch it. Just like we
mustn’t neglect play.
Play?
Yes.. I was just thinking of that, because
before, we talked about the
sense of wonder that children are born
with. They are not only little philosophers;
they also play freely – and what
an undervalued activity that has
become in most of our lives as adults!
We are very restrictive about the idea
of playing, limiting it to a certain
period within childhood, and then we
ought to stop; then we ought to
become more «serious» about
everything. But playing means immersing
yourself in a space of openness to
discovery – a space in which we come
across new components of our selves,
gather new concepts of the world. If
we regard playfulness as something …
borderline frivolous, as a waste of time,
we exterminate the precondition of
creativity. Some of my favorite, contemporary
artists demonstrate a playful
sensibility in their work, which I cherish
so much – Olafur Eliasson, for example,
seems to me to possess a very playful
spirit, which if you ask me is a sort of
gifted way of engaging the world, and
«Playing
means immersing
yourself in a space
of openness to
discovery.»
the creative act. It’s part of being
deeply curious. Which explains why
he’s also someone who’s deeply
engaged with science, with the forces
of nature. He brings it all together, and
with a lot of playfulness and curiosity,
creates installations that call upon us to
reconsider how we see, feel, think, and
interact with the world and with each
other.
The readers won’t want to hear from
me, but from you, however – kindly
allow me a very brief side note: What
you said about occasional flashes of
Image: Marco Giugliarelli / Civitella Ranieri Foundation.

37
Who’s who
Enuma Okoro is a Nigerian-American
writer, speaker,
curator, and facilitator. She is
a weekend columnist for the
Financial Times where she
writes «The Art of Life» about
the intersection of art, culture,
philosophy, ecology, contemplative-spirituality,
and how
we live. She has written and
edited four books, her fiction
and poetry are published in
anthologies, and her essays
and articles have been
featured in The New York
Times, The Financial Times,
Aeon, Vogue, The Cut, The
Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s
Bazaar, NYU Washington
Review, The Guardian, The
Washington Post, and more.
She has a subscriber-based
newsletter on Substack called
«A Little Heart to Heart» and
she is the curator of the
recent exhibition «The Flesh
of the Earth» at Hauser &
Wirth gallery in Chelsea, New
York. More about Enuma:
beauty reminds me of the final monologue
of Paolo Sorrentino’s movie «La
Grande Bellezza» – just to put this out
there, in case people want to look it
up. And what you said about playfulness
in art makes me think of Damien
Hirst’s «Spots»: I always liked them a
lot more than his takes on death and
decay; and thanks to you, I feel I finally
have permission to say that (laughs).
You have my permission (laughs). Well
… you know, it’s really worth thinking
about the value of playfulness – of a
child-like, not a childish approach to
the wonders around us. That’s a big
difference. One can often overhear
young parents saying that they’re
«rediscovering the world» through the
eyes of their children; that their children
are reminding them of crucial
phenomena the adults almost forgot: I
think about feeling the skin of a tomato
between one’s fingers – peeling
it – followed by the sensation that the
inside of the fruit is totally different …
tell me, when did you last really give a
thought to that sensation? You probably
cook something that contains
tomatoes every other week, and hardly
give any thought to what they feel like
when you cut them. Children are
incredibly present, they’re «in the
moment», and I suspect it would do all
«To transform
suffering not only
into joy, but into
anything other
than suffering is
challenging.»
of us good to return to that sense of
presence in the moment..
Yes, and …
… sorry, just a second. You mentioned
Damien Hirst’s dots – there’s another
thought I’d like to express. I trust
you’re familiar with the work of Yayoi
Kusama? We know a lot about her, and
we are aware of her complicated
biography; her struggle with mental
illness. But she seems to transform part
of her struggles into something positive
that people can get find experiential
pleasure from, something joyful.
Into something that has a very playful
aspect to it. People are drawn to her
work because she – in my opinion –
provides them with the opportunity to
experience something playful and
curious beyond the seriousness of
everyday life.
Her work is also an impressive demonstration
of how showing pain as pain is

38
relatively easy, but transforming suffering
into joy is … that’s a skill very few
artists master.
I agree. To transform suffering not only
into joy, but into anything other than
suffering is challenging. And the step
before the transformation is extremely
challenging, too: it’s accepting that
we’re suffering – and sitting with our
pain. We spoke about feelings, and I
observe that in today’s world, many
people belittle their pain … either
because they are afraid of it or because
they watch the news and say:
«Well, what’s my problem in comparison
to the hardships of people in a
war-torn country?» But pain is pain,
Johannes. We must accept that it is
there, welcome it as a guest, sit with it
– and then try to figure out what to do
with it; allow it room to transform as it
will into something else. I will say this: I
think we’d do humanity as a whole a
great service if we were all more open,
more honest about the pain we carry.
Not in a way in which we spill our guts
to anyone showing even the slightest
interest in us, but in a recognition of
our common humanity. Part of the
conditio humana is that we must deal
with pain; there is no way around it. I
would love for us all to stop pretending
that’s not true.
The vulnerability, the frailty of being
human is a topic of many of your
columns. Very often, those texts – and
other texts of yours as well – are
inspired by paintings. You also write
about literature and music, of course,
but visually accessible art is a central
point of access. Why?
There’s a couple of answers to that
question. Visual art has an «immediate
quality»: We don’t see something, then
think about it and then feel something.
I believe we see something, feel
something, and only then do we start
to analyze and think. Images are very,
very powerful; whether they’re paintings,
photographs or the sight of a
sculpture. I mean, I’m a writer, I love
words – I told you I’ve always loved
stories, and storytelling – but images
are storytelling, too! With the addition
that they may open up spaces within us
that language won’t give us access to;
as language has its own limitations. A
picture needs no translation. You don’t
need to speak French to view the
exhibition of a French painter. Art is for
everyone and must not be elitist, and
with visual art … you just go and look at
it! (laughs) Unless you want to write
another book or become a critic, you
don’t need anything special to embrace
art. You don’t need anything,
except for your senses and and a
willingness to engage and be engaged.
«Beauty gives
me hope. Poetry
gives me hope.
Kindness gives
me hope.»
With that being said, I think it’s only
fair to conclude this conversation with
a painting: «Human Castle», a work by
contemporary artist Wonder Buhle
Mbambo. I quote the description from
your column in the Financial Times: «In
the middle of a beautiful, lush landscape
a totem of people all join together
to hold up a single child. From
the hairstyle, we assume it is a young
girl, and in her raised arm she holds a
light, what looks to me like a star on a
stick. I imagine her as the future,
bearing the hopes of those who have
come before her and who are lifting
her up.» We haven’t talked politics
today – but in our times of division,
how do you maintain the optimism that
we’ll eventually come together to lift
up the next generation?
Have we really not talked politics? We
haven’t talked about politicians or
political parties. But we’ve talked about
what it means to be human – and being
human usually means, among many
other things, to live in a society, as an
active member of public life or as a
citizen. So whether it’s by casting a vote
– doing community service – or doing
anything else, we can all influence the
future of … well, everything! We all
have a role to play, we all have a
position to fill in the orchestra of life.
It’d be wise to not only think about
hyper-dominant structures and the
power to rule peoples, but also to
remind ourselves that individual
agency matters and that, within our
individual environments, we can make
a lasting impact. That’s part of my
recipe for remaining optimistic. Another
part is that I am a spiritual person.
I believe there’s more at play than what
we can perceive, and a part of me is
okay not fully understanding how
exactly that works. Mystery can be a
beautiful thing. Though I recognize and
acknowledge the power of energy,
how it moves, how it can be steered
and how we all might likely benefit
from a deeper understanding of
energetic connections and movement.
But I do believe in God and in spirit as
much as I believe that we also are
responsible for working towards the
changes we seek. And this is where we
return to connection. I don’t know how
to say this without using a bit of a
washed-out metaphor, but I really do
see humanity as a family. We’re a
messed-up, dysfunctional family. Sometimes,
we even forget we’re a family at
all. But I hope that we can figure out
how to remember that. What else
keeps me optimistic, what else gives
me hope? Beauty gives me hope.
Poetry gives me hope. Kindness gives
me hope. Generosity gives me hope.
Watching flowers bloom gives me
hope – having plants around the house
that turn towards the rising sun gives
me hope, because I like that that’s how
they communicate with me; that that’s
their way of letting me know what they
need, to be moved close to the sun, to
source energy (laughs). They need the
light because they are alive, and they
are growing. Things are still alive,
Johannes, and where there is life –
there must be hope.