The Colorful Times » Culture

Denzel Washington and Company Gun Through ‘Fences’

Don Gagnon — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 09:44:34 +0000

Perhaps the most popularly successful of August Wilson’s plays, Fences is currently enjoying a notable vogue in its first Broadway revival since the original production in 1987 that starred James Earl Jones, but less for the celebrity in the audience than for the star power on stage: Hollywood visitors Denzel Washington and Viola Davis in the lead roles. Originating from director Kenny Leon’s nascent production at Boston’s distinguished Huntington Theatre in 2009, it was recast, ostensibly for star power, for there were no “names” attached to that Boston production.

Despite less-than-consistent critical encomiums in its Broadway reincarnation, the production has been selling out—a rare feat for a serious, straight play on Broadway, especially one that focuses on the African American experience. If you have the fortitude to wait for day-of-show cancellations, you will be charged the price for premium seats: more than $400 per ticket. Clearly, there is a synergy at work. Combine a great play with star power and the potential to attract traditional and non-traditional (read: not white) audiences and the payoff is enormous. In fact, the grand popular success of the revival is making even Hollywood pay attention, once again, to Broadway. There is considerable talk that the play, long rumored for cinematic treatment, may now find its way to the local multiplex.

And that would be unfortunate.

The only Wilson play to be filmed so far was made for TV: a respectful production of The Piano Lesson featuring much of the original Broadway cast, directed by its Broadway director Lloyd Richards, and presented on “Hallmark Hall of Fame,” clearly not destined to be a great ratings winner but another succes d’estime for the Hallmark hallmark. In addition, when newly elected U.S. President Barack Obama took his wife on a long-promised first post-election date, they chose to attend the Lincoln Center Theatre’s revival of Wilson’s Joe Turner’s Come and Gone, thereby raising that play’s--and the playwright’s—profile even further. Now, Fences is poised to become, in a new medium, the highest-profile project among Wilson’s ten “century cycle” plays, with the long queues and bustling box office suggesting a bright green future.

But off-stage as well as on, this Fences is a cautionary tale. There is a price to be paid for such popular success as Hollywood entices with, and its lesson is especially appropriate to the life and work of August Wilson. As a child in Pittsburgh (where nine of his ten cycle plays are set), the impoverished Wilson watched his struggling mother win--and then lose--a new washing machine in a contest sponsored by a local radio station. The delivery men, upon seeing that the winner was a single black woman with children of mixed ethnicity, took the washer back and instead brought her a certificate for a used one from the Salvation Army—which she promptly refused. “Something ain’t always better than nothing,” Wilson recalls his mother teaching him about the experience. Sadly, the same may be said for this recent incarnation of Fences. While any serious production of a serious play that meets with such success should be welcome—especially for the black audiences that usually avoid the Great White Way—“something” should not be enough to satisfy, and there’s the rub.

Viola Davis and Denzel Washington in the Broadway revival of the August Wilson play Fences.

I had the great good fortune to secure tickets to the play. Having been astonished by the power of the same production of Joe Turner at the Belasco Theatre that lured the First Couple, I was eager to renew my acquaintance with Wilson’s work just a few blocks to the north at the Cort Theatre, courtesy of a group of theatre professionals whose successes are notable. However, I should have been forewarned by some cautionary word of mouth. Apparently, these “new” Broadway audiences were acting out as if they were attending Amateur Night at the Apollo or some churchified morality play designed more to elicit shouts and laughs than to evoke pity and fear, the Aristotelian earmarks of great tragedy. It seems as if, in its most recent incarnation, Fences was being welcomed to what Henry Louis Gates (and others) call “the Chitlin circuit”: a trope of plays, particularly by and for black audiences, that illustrate contemporary black American life in moralistic, pulpit-style platitudes that target the lowest common denominator in popular acceptance: euthanizing the audience with what they know and telling the audience what they want to hear, rather than challenging them to consider the complex and contradictory human dilemma.

Denzel Washington, left, and Viola Davis are in a scene from the Broadway revival of August Wilson's Fences, at the Cort Theatre in New York.

This talk of neo-“call and response” was, of course, merely rumor; confirmed word had not yet reached the street of Denzel Washington stepping out of character to quiet the growing “audience participation,” though notice of his actions would soon be getting about the Rialto. Still, recalling the critical words of critic Robert Brustein that Wilson was writing “victim literature,” I reserved judgement. After all, affecting drama should stir an audience. In the words of Wilson himself, “Art changes individuals; individuals change society.” Shouldn’t people be moved? Shouldn’t they, as I was at the stunning climax to Joe Turner, be lifted out of their seats—out of their lives, out of their comfort zones—by an artistic rendering of life so charged that to sit still is simply an impossibility?

Alas, it was not the audience that was failing the production, despite what I saw as vocal--but not overly exaggerated--audience response. Rather, it was the production that failed its audience in one particular way.

Alas.

In his 1991 essay “Where to Begin?” August Wilson delineated his ethics of writing. “To write,” he said, “is to fix language, to get it down and fix it to a spot and have it have meaning and be fat with substance.”

Perhaps fearing the play’s sheer cascade of words, language, and ideas, along with a nearly three-hour running time, a dearth of physical action, and a hint of the metaphysical—it mostly comprises people sitting around talking—the production’s powers-that-be seem to have settled on a strategy that that would serve the desires and needs of the audience rather than those of the play. No wonder audiences were responding so audibly; the production gave them license to do so. In the words of Todd Boyd, writing for the website The Root, “There’s a reason why there’s never been an adaptation of August Wilson at the multiplex. When it comes to the lives of black folks, Hollywood—and the movie-going audience—doesn’t do complicated, nuanced or subtle.” Clearly, the same could be said for the theatre-going audience, and just as clearly, this production of Fences seemed to have taken that assessment to heart.

Sitting and watching Washington and company machine-gun their way through the poetry of Wilson’s sharply observed dialect, I was put in mind of another “black” play: Dreamgirls. When profit-hungry producer Curtis Taylor, Jr. fires loose cannon James “Thunder” Early for, essentially, being too black for white audiences, he chastises the grinning singer who claims an inability to sing Johnny Mathis-type easy-listening songs: “That’s because, Jimmy, you don’t trust the music/And that’s because, Jimmy, you don’t trust the words.” That refrain ricocheted around my brain, along with the rapid-fire dialogue in Fences that practically left skid marks on my ears as it raced along. What a stark contrast it was to hear Wilson’s lines being flung at the audience and to consider the process by which the words came to be written.

In a 1996 article, Wilson describes how he began the process of writing a play by first washing his hands as a cleansing ritual, because he considered writing a “mystical and spiritual experience.” Then he strolled around his neighborhood—particularly the Hill district in Pittsburgh, his favorite dramatic locale. He ordered coffee at a diner, sat with a notebook in hand and waited for voices around him to land in his ear: “Sometimes, nobody wants to talk to me. That’s cool. I’ll wait a while and if it’s no good, I’ll move on to the next coffee shop. Like fishing.” The unhurried, even languid, pace of his creative process and its respect for the sound of the human voice and the language that transmits it is not what is being delivered at the Cort Theatre, however. The words--and the richly developed theme-and-variation conversations comprising them--that have earned Wilson Pulitzer Prizes and Tony Awards and Drama Desk awards, along with myriad others, are being flattened in a mad rush to the final curtain and to keep the proceedings from becoming too intense for an audience that the production seems to feel “doesn’t do complicated.”

Perhaps the most egregious example of this incomprehensible disrespect for the language and dialect that fired Wilson and distinguishes his literate drama comes when Washington’s Troy Maxson, the bitter ex-baseball player, describes to his friend and wife how he fought down the Devil. The speech—as much a soliloquy as anything in the play, for it is designed to be a pep talk for himself in his coming trials at work and home—is played as a comic battle between a street poseur—a 1950s gangsta with swagger--and a braggart Devil. This is the same conflict that Maxon will again have to engage at the climax of the play, but because of the play’s desire to entertain the crowds, and its haste to come in under two and a half hours, the moment is lost. It’s just part of Maxon’s bragging, rather than the heart of his conflicts with the world and himself. It gets laughs when it should induce chills. And it is only one such example.

Joe Turner Come and Gone” width=”330″ height=”450″ class=”size-full wp-image-2697″ />

Roger Robinson and Marsha Stephanie Blake in Bartlett Sher's revival of the August Wilson play Joe Turner's Come and Gone, at the Belasco Theater (2009).

One of the challenges is that Wilson’s plays are not trying to answer all the difficult questions. Rather, they often erupt with new questions that may or may not be answered. Witness the startlingly brief denouement of Joe Turner: the climax occurs, and then rather than relying on falling action to return the audience to some position of equilibrium, the play ends, refusing to clarify what just happened: it is enough that the event happened. Wilson does not spoon-feed. In his absence, the producers of Fences seem to have taken on the task for themselves; the fewer questions raised, the fewer need to be answered.

If it is true, according to Boyd’s claims in The Root, that Wilson’s work is wrought too finely to be widely appreciated or understood by black American audiences and the money moguls of Hollywood, “where all the creative life is often sucked from potentially brilliant works,” then it is not hard to see that this production in its casting, performance and direction (though Leon, also a Hollywood director, is perhaps more active in the theatre and has long been associated with Wilson, directing the original Broadway productions of Gem of the Ocean and Radio Golf, among others) resonates with West Coast sensibilities and sees the aesthetics of the play as through a funhouse glass, less darkly. Perhaps it is not surprising that Leon, already a bankable director because of his recent stage and television version of the classic A Raisin in the Sun, in which he allowed or encouraged significant cuts and changes to the classic Lorraine Hansberry script. And while that project was instigated by Sean “Diddy” Combs by means of establishing his rep as a serious (!) actor, it was Leon’s concept that eventually made a splash on stage and television. Phylicia Rashad’s outstanding performance notwithstanding, it was not Hansberry’s play any more than this Fences represents Wilson honestly.

There is a further irony at insidious play with this streamlined Fences. Wilson specified that major productions of his work were to be directed by black directors only, feeling that only someone who lived the experience could interpret his plays with the greatest validity. When Lincoln Center Theatre announced Bartlett Sher—a white director of considerable reputation—as director of Joe Turner, the claxons rang out, announcing a willing disregard for Wilson’s politics and aesthetics. That production received across-the-board raves, and upon its opening, the race issue quickly became silenced. Kenny Leon, an African American director, inspired no such pre-opening dyspepsia among the cognoscenti, yet his production flies far afield from the Wilson style, temperament, and respect of the language of Wilson’s Hill district.

Art is art. Opinions about art are relative. New theatrical productions of older plays need not be slavish in their adherence to the original, and I have often found myself delighted by unexpected discoveries in older plays: Brian Dennehy’s shattering descent into Willy Loman’s overwrought psyche rivaling if not surpassing that of the original Lee J. Cobb; Vanessa Redgrave’s unearthly Mary Tyrone; and the Donmar/Roundabout’s reconstruction of Cabaret, to name a few. However, these are all examples of art and artists who found more of what was already there, expanding rather than contracting the texts and contexts.

We know there is good art and bad art, and while critics, pundits and the proletariat all eventually decide what is embraced as valid and valuable, I wonder if, in trying to achieve popular success, we may not be sacrificing too much of what led to success. I often teach a course in American drama that traces a 20th century history of great plays and playwrights in terms of how they approach and interrogate success. Willy Loman, James Tyrone, Walter Lee Younger and others—many others—seem to teach a consistent lesson in the challenges engaged when one places personal gain above social or cultural ethics. The lesson is clear: sell out your people (family, neighbors, community) and you invoke your own doom.

I am not claiming that the artists involved in this production of Fences evince no respect for the art of August Wilson. Indeed, the major and minor names attached to the project would have every reason (though not all of them have equal ability) to do justice to Wilson’s achievement. However, I felt as I watched the play careen across the stage that if Wilson’s work is indeed among the very finest of its kind in the American dramatic tradition, then perhaps it is for the best that Fences—at least this version of Fences—remain a creature of the stage. The presence of Kenny Leon and a host of celebrity endorsements indicate that there is a good chance Hollywood will finally come calling in a big way. It will get award nominations because it seriously addresses issues of race in the United States, a sure-fire means by which to win the Gold Derby. It might even win Washington another Oscar and reenergize Davis’ options to rights of first refusal. However, if the cinematic Fences replicates its Broadway strategy of speed, sermons and smiles, the result may tilt the tills to full, but its soul will starve. After all, something ain’t always better than nothing.

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Playing the Game: Subverting Colonial Power Structures in Kaffir Boy & Things Fall Apart

Verona Bennett — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 17:33:07 +0000

Mark Mathabane’s 1986 autobiography, Kaffir Boy, describes his upbringing under South African apartheid and the process by which he escapes to the United States. A bright student, young Mark devours the books his mother’s white employer lends him, and through their relationship, he also begins playing tennis – which was pretty high on the list of white and upper-crusty sports in those days. Under the guidance of a black player, Mark becomes so skilled that he is invited to play at an all-white tennis club.

Surprisingly, nobody at the club cares that this is a huge rule violation, and Mark’s presence not only dispels some white stereotypes about blacks, but also makes him recognize his own fundamental equality with a world that would have him think otherwise. Eventually, Mark’s mentor encourages him to play for the South African Breweries’ Open, which the apartheid government has made multi-racial in a feeble attempt to improve their international image. Insulted by their country’s transparent and self-serving gesture, every black player decides to boycott the event – except Mark.

Although his participation outcasts him from the black community, it also has huge symbolic implications. Mark crosses into the white sectors of Johannesburg – which was against the law at the time – to play a very elite sport, thus literally beating the colonizers at their own game. On a more practical level, showcasing his ability earns him a scholarship to Limestone College in South Carolina, which not only allows him to escape South Africa, but also brings him to a place where his story can be heard and make a difference. Kaffir Boy just goes to show that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em – and THEN beat ‘em.

In a similar tradition of African literature is Nigerian author Chinua Achebe, who is best known for a series of novels about British colonization that includes Things Fall Apart and No Longer at Ease. Although Achebe is the most widely-translated African author in the world, he has received strong criticism for not writing in his native Igbo. Unlike Mathabane, Achebe still called Africa home when he decided to write in English.

Just as Mathabane finds himself defending his participation in the tennis open, Achebe must argue for his use of English over Igbo. First, English is the only language spoken across all of Nigeria (not to mention most of the rest of the world), which allows his message to reach millions instead of just thousands or even hundreds. Secondly, Achebe never allows the language to confine him; he manipulates English to conform to Igbo style, mimic its cadence, and express its proverbs. By “extending the frontiers of English so as to accommodate African thought-patterns,” Achebe forces the language to serve him, thus subverting voice of the colonizer to convey that of the oppressed.

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Original Gabriel Eklou Painting for Auction: The Lady and The Wind

Staff — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 08:32:30 +0000

Gabriel Eklou was born in 1966 in Accra, Ghana, West Africa, but spent most of his childhood in Togo. His schooling took place in Togo, Benin and Ghana. As a trained accountant he worked in the travel industry but, in 1996, he followed his passion and gift and became a full-time painter.

As his art developed he began using larger canvases and found that they gave him the scope he needed to portray his main interests – the symbolic interpretation of community life.

Signed, framed original, acrylics on canvas, 100 x 105cm.

The Lady and the Wind (featured) captures the essence of Gabriel’s light and graceful expressionism. His signature figures, elongated, tapered and elegant, speak a body language that is understood all over the world. With economy, Gabriel conveys the inner energy in an impending gesture. Whether dynamic or in repose, his people reside in a timeless landscape of calm earth tones.

This talented and passionate African artist has kept a steady pace since 1996, exhibiting three or four times a year. His art can be found in corporate and private collections in Ghana, West Africa, Togo, Germany, England, Denmark, Belgium, the USA, Japan and Canada.

Bid on eBay for The Lady and The Wind or contact us to buy it privately.

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Africa Since Independence: A Comparative History

Staff — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 15:35:03 +0000

This is a genuinely comparative study of the different trajectories and experiences of independent African states. It addresses the differential legacies of British, French, Portuguese, Belgian and Spanish colonialism as well as the unique qualities of imperial Ethiopia and Liberia.

Paul Nugent analyses boundary problems, the reshaping of territorial structures and the contrasting ideological paths followed by civilian and military regimes. The book ends with a look at the interplay between structural adjustment, ethnicity, democratization and the impact of NGOs. A state-level perspective is balanced by a sensitivity to popular culture.

Rating: (out of 1 reviews)

List Price: $ 38.00

Price: $ 28.40

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Michael Jackson – Thriller & Billie Jean

Staff — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 20:30:11 +0000

So Michael Jackson has sold over one billion dollars worth of music in the year since his untimely death. That must surely beat Elvis Presley hands down to the title of “King of Music.”

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Speaking of a Star, Robin Thicke Shines

Vera Kufuor — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 21:08:55 +0000

The voices of many musical stars have left great impact on the heart but I struggled to change the channel as Robin Thicke’s smooth sultry voice cried out “lost without you…”

Even as his name struck across the screen, fading out to nothing, as when a match is lit, I was still frozen on the spot. From that moment I was a fan. Just when I thought I had heard it all before, this musical sweetheart came and turned my world upside down. He continually delivers all his songs with such heart, such beauty. As though the song, would be his last to sing.

It’s in The Morning, Robin Thicke’s most recent ballad with Snoop Dog is so fresh and so clean--just like the video. Shot in what looks like a picturesque haven, you want to be there and bask in its poetic light. There in the big bright bedroom is Robin Thicke with his lady, both lovingly teasing, just enjoying everything about being in love one day in the morning. When you are in love everything about waking up seems great. You do not rush. You take your time with everything you do. Any flaws seem to go unnoticed. All things appear wonderful and you ask no questions.

It is so beautiful to see how a man takes notice of his woman enjoying the water. Is not being in love great? In between are cuts to Snoop Dog and his woman enjoying themselves outside in an open top car before a beautiful sunset and just shy of the ocean’s blue waters. A simple video that speaks so much. The video is one to watch. Speaking of love, good luck to his lady Paula Patton and the new addition about to come into their world.

Everybody has a special gift. Some are lucky enough to know it and own it from childhood. Others have no idea of their gift until something or someone brings it out in them. What is certain is that all of us have a specific gift. If you are not yet aware of yours, here is hoping you can receive the keys of blessings from Heaven to unlock your gift. For Robin Thicke, the gift is his song.

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Portraits of Eve: Women of Color Share Their Body/Soul Conversations

Paul Boakye — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 18:23:55 +0000

I love photography. Love seeing ‘people of colour’ captured in strong black and white images. Love fearless form and clarity in pictures. Love perfect composition, and seeing thinking outside of the box, photographically speaking, I mean.

I want to see dark-skinned people pictured using impeccable lighting—all shades, shadows and textures lifted in near 3D tone and quality—just as it was once said could never be achieved with black skin in photography. So when I was offered the chance to download and review an electronic copy of Herb Way’s book, Portraits of Eve: Women of Color Share Their Body/Soul Conversations, I was terribly excited.

I have always been comfortable with my body. Being adopted by an Italian family got me used to being different and I grew up with the belief that it was a wonderful thing.

I’ve never met Herb Way. I know little about him or his work, except what can be found on his Facebook profile. I therefore had no concept of what to expect from his first book of photographic images. But as I flipped through its pages, and read the personal statements accompanying each photograph, I was surprised by the number of women who spoke of their bodies in terms of ‘scars.’ They had been scarred by pregnancy, hormones, stress, diet or illness, many said, or they talked of a need for breast-reduction, as opposed to the normal breast-enlargement that figure so prominently in most male fantasies.

I was immediately drawn to these personal stories, and struck by how much the human body is still just a vessel. Here were women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and shades, revealing and revelling in their nudity for all the world to see. Whereas we are normally encouraged to think of naked female forms as purely sexual objects, particularly in this porn-obsessed Internet age, there was something very different going on here.

One woman spoke of how her scarring had been diminished by the still athletic parts of her body—which she liked, worked on and emphasised—whilst masking those areas that troubled her most. Another was unhappy with an extremely thin frame from childhood but masked her pain with a long synthetic wig that seemed to suggest other issues. Having both positive and negative body parts that were still considered part of each woman’s overall beauty was a recurring theme in many of the personal testimonies.

I try not to place too much emphasis on appearances. I believe that the spirit is much more relevant.

Among the male friends I showed this book, many commented on one or two images in particular. “Why were some of the good-looking model-types covered up,” when they at least should be used to being photographed or looked at, and presumably, more comfortable showing their flesh in public? I didn’t see it quite that way. It left me thinking about how difficult it must be for some models and ordinary women too in our society; constantly having people critiquing your body, your looks, in a way that most men are never subjected to and would never voluntarily undergo. Of course, men self-critique, but if our perception of self were based largely on our external appearance, most men I know, and certainly many of those in positions of power, would have no self-esteem at all.

With the women featured in this book, there was little direct discussion on how their body image may have been influenced by the men in their lives. These personal stories centred instead on structural, social or cultural influences, and the women’s own perceptions of themselves. Many cited the act of being photographed nude for this 144-page volume as part of their ongoing process of healing.

Every roll, dimple, and scar...is a marker of my life...wonderful nights with my lover, late night ice cream parties with my friends, and the birth of my children.

In this sense, Portraits of Eve has very little to do with the male gaze. For in our society where female nudity is most often about male pleasure, male power and the objectification of women, Herb Way’s book is a brave and enlightening departure from the norm. Yet ‘brave’ is perhaps the wrong word, but ‘empowered,’ which is so much more useful for millions of ordinary women such as those featured here.

Also of note was how the various women self-identified: African American, Native American, Korean, Trinidadian/Italian, Filipino, Brazilian, and so on. My sincere thanks to Herb Way for an opportunity to appreciate the loving and wonderful work that has gone into the preparation of Portraits of Eve: Women of Color Share Their Body/Soul Conversations, and especially to the women themselves for making public the intimate and private photographic sessions that he has so tenderly recorded with them. Herb Way and his camera love real women, just like these women have grown to love themselves.

The self-published, 144-page book, Portraits of Eve: Women of Color Share Their Body/Soul Conversations, containing 120 photographs of semi-nude and nude images of sixty women will be available from September 2010. Production costs are being offset by sales of the e-book version and by advanced sales of the hard copy edition at a special pre-publication price.

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Shani Greene-Dowdell’s Keeping It Tight (Reviewed)

Victor Odoi’s Fishermen and Market Scenes

Paul Boakye — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 14:08:31 +0000

Acclaimed as the pre-eminent neo-impressionist in his native Ghana, Victor Odoi’s oil paintings evoke the fishing villages and market scenes along the coast of Accra, the capital city.

At Work (II) by Victor-Odoi | Acrylics on Card (50 x 38cm)

Odoi’s world is peopled by strong and energetic fishermen who sail the turbulent seas in search of the daily catch to sell at market where they go to conduct brisk business and to fraternize. It is a world of rough seas and strong blues, reds and yellows as fresh and colourful as the tuna, squid, sea bream and snappers that his fishermen catch.

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Painter Larry Otoo: A Contemporary Traditionalist

Paul Boakye — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 12:26:08 +0000

“I like and love to paint, to translate my inner perceptions into reality… use colour so liberally so that I can be happy with what I create.”

Mellow Mood by Larry Otoo
Acrylics on Canvas 81 X 69cm

Larry Otoo attended the College of Art at Kwame Nkrumah University where he attained an MA in African Art and Comparative Literature in 1981. His themes express the relationship between Western and African art, and he refers to himself as “a contemporary traditionalist” since much of work is inspired by the familiar daily activities of Ghanaian life.

Having exhibited widely and regularly since 1978, Larry is one of the best-known and most successful artists in Ghana today. “Each time I pick up the brush to paint,” he says, “I have a strong feeling that an obligation has been placed upon me to record and preserve our traditions visually.”

Otoo paints in oils and acrylics and does portraits in pastels. He is a master colourist with a strong sense of surface effect and rhythm. His subjects include groups of traditional drummers, dancers, crowds, market scenes, and so on. He is described as “courageous in his experimentation,” and his canvases varying considerably.

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The Fishy Art of Kobina Nyarko

Paul Boakye — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 10:57:06 +0000

“I have explored several mediums, styles and themes. Specific interest in the subject FISHES, which my love revolves around.”

Kobina Nyarko is one of Ghana’s premier young contemporary artists. Born in Takoradi, Ghana, in 1972, much of Nyarko’s recent work explores the symbolism of fish in paintings that feature numerous tiny fish on often large-scale canvases.

Fun Around by Kobina Nyarko
Acrylics (egshell-on-card) 33 x 26cm

This “trademark” theme makes his work easy to recognize. The swirling, mesmerizing schools of fish captivate all of Nyarko’s viewers and collectors.

Nyarko was formally trained at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology. He graduated in 2003 with a BA in Industrial Art.

In May 2007, Kobina Nyarko was featured in an exhibition at the San Diego Museum of Man, Artists Speak: Contemporary art from Ghana and Zimbabwe. His work is considered illustrative of 3rd generation Ghanaian artists, who freely express themselves as artists in a modern world, without succumbing to restrictive notions of African art.

Kobina Nyarko currently lives in Takoradi with his wife and son.

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