It was a strange, indecisive day on Monday. English cold with strong temperate breeze, yet bright clear skies that reminded me of the tropics. It was the kind of day, if rain was present, I would phrase as I termed it in the Caribbean- a day when God and the Devil were at war. It was just the right day, I thought, to see Chris Ofili at the Tate Britain- the Mancunian of Nigerian origin who spent his early years studying at the Chelsea School of Art and Design and the Royal College of Art, who won the Turner Prize in 2008, and who now lives and paints in Trinidad.
I entered the Tate nervously, as I am all too aware of the heavy burden that lies on the shoulders of the Lone Black Man. Prior to the exhibition, I had only seen one of his pieces at the Saatchi Gallery. I had read that Mayor Giuliani was very offended by his depiction of the Virgin Mary and threatened to pull the entire exhibition so I expected to be challenged. But I was also aware that The Lone Black Man in a milieu dominated by the Others becomes tempted to do one of two things- assimilate or exaggerate. He may assimilate his ideas and philosophies to align with his environment or contemporaries or he may choose to exaggerate and affirm his difference, loudly.
The exhibition began with a selection of the more vibrant and energetic pieces that was to become Ofili’s signature- the Zimbabwean inspired tiny dots, bold brush strokes layered over resin, glitter and map pins, collages that were artfully arranged, and of course, scattily arranged elephant dung. Ofili claims to parody the establishment but in the early 1990s I found his work arrogantly bawdy, tempestuous, and crude. I am not sure that slamming random balls of elephant dung on canvas had the required effect of raising the paintings of the ground and supplying them with "earthiness". Would it not have been more thoughtful to cross the border between painting and sculpture- to mount the collage on a base of clay or sand or at least to fashion the dreaded dung into something? I was not convinced.
Other ideas were mildly interesting. 7 Bitches Tossing Their Pussies Before the Divine Dung was a cheeky retort to William Blake's The Four and Twenty Elders Casting Their Crowns Before the Divine Throne (1803-1805) which was meant to personify the tension between hip hop's dirty lyrics and the sultry crooning of the artists and the music. Captain Shit and Holy Virgin Mary were personifications along the same veins. The ideas were credible but I found the execution wanting. Clothing a Black Madonna with pictures of gaping vaginas and assholes of black women did not, to me, "rework stereotypes of black women and their representation in hip-hop, the contradiction of a Virgin Mother and the stereotyping of the black female"- it was itself the stereotype, that the country's most famous black artist's spot at the Tate was venerated with "Pimping Ain't Easy" sexual imagery, misogynistic labels, violent pornography, dicks and pussies. How trite.
In contrast, Ofili's best work by far, No Woman No Cry, which won him the Turner Prize, was a graceful, poised piece of work that yet resonated with energy and showcased his true potential. He straddled the line between painting, sculpture and collage and produced a work teeming with pathos and dignity. Similarly, his Upper Room was thoughtful- similar paintings of monkeys holding chalices around an area where spectators congregate is the metaphysical table- a depiction of the disciples and Christianity as primitive or the fusion of Hindu symbolism? I found his Pan African portraits fierce- multiple portraits of black love in red black and green taking their roots from African nationalism and black pride. Here he departed from his previously dystopic vision of Africanism to present a glamorised blinged-out portrait of us in a visual display that was glittery and arresting. It was in these paintings that I felt that the artist had defied expectations and had found his own voice.
Just as you thought he was getting warmer, his style changed again in the Blue Rider Series. He used gigantic canvas and dispenses with the dung but the tone of the pieces are dark and moody. The images were meant to convey and evoke twilight and the sense of the Caribbean unlit- it was very difficult to discern what he was trying to do. Visual poetry? No. Interesting? Yes. There was a feeling that Ofili was in a very dark, sombre place.
The newest (Trinidadian) paintings have been strongly criticised by the British press. "Juvenelia. He seems to be wrestling for an encore. He can't draw properly". However, I believe that these last paintings were most promising and revealing of his wild imagination. There is a new energy and restlessness that was not present for many years. Personally, it seems like nature has waltzed in and wept on his brush. Paintings like Habio Green Locks which depicts a Rastafarian belching fruit or Lady Chancellor - which depicts one of the monied areas of St. Clair, Trinidad as a woman drinking from a chalice- are stunning.
I am glad that the bawdy blaxploitation of his earlier work is gone and he is willing to undergo a process of rethought and reworking. Isn't this one of the more beautiful things in life- that we can always change our approach, change our minds? I am a bit surprised that the art critics find it less challenging. Is it because he is less shocking for shock's sake? I found the shift more than physical, it was almost spiritual
I left the Tate to a wind that seemed more steely than before but the air was just as fresh, the sky just as bright.
The exhibition runs until 16 May at the Tate Britain, Millbank.
