Enuma Okoro: Learning to see
With her «The Art of Life» column, Enuma Okoro reaches more than 20 million readers of the «Financial Times» every Saturday. She always strives to open up new perspectives for them—on culture, society, and the human condition. What drives her?

m&k: Enuma Okoro, when I read your weekly "The Art of Life" column in the Financial Times, I often have the feeling of gaining a new perspective: on culture, on society, on life. The "different view" you offer - is it driven by an "intention"?
Enuma Okoro: There is actually something of an ... an implicit goal or question that I approach a lot of my writing with: "How can I get us to think about how we see?" All too often we humans think that we understand everything immediately; we jump to conclusions about the people around us or about the human condition in general. I try to motivate the readers of my column to meet their bias with the skepticism it deserves. If you tell me now that I am achieving this goal in your case, then I am very pleased. Because that's how I move through life myself: with curiosity about the stories of the people I meet and a constant willingness to question myself. Because I question myself, I am a better listener - I am more humble, more open. This in turn ensures that wonderful stories find their way to me ... it's a great cycle.
"How can I get us to think about how we see?"
Your interest in people and their stories is imperative to your work - as a curator, as an author, as a philosopher. You think about how storytelling connects us; not only within our species, but also with other animals; with the rest of nature. Do you remember when the topos "connection" first became the focus of your attention?
An exciting question - but one that is difficult to answer. I can't say exactly when I started thinking the way I do today, and there are probably several factors that play a role. One of them is that - since I was a little girl - I have had a deep fascination with the world around us. It's just who I am, it's how I was born. I grew up in a Catholic family and still remember very clearly the Sundays when my parents took me to church. The stained glass windows, the magical surrealism of the imagery, my imagination that couldn't be contained ... I not only believed that holy water was de facto sacred - and that touching the water would "do something to me" - but also that God lived at the back of the church! Whenever the altar boys in their white vestments stepped out of the back room into the nave to prepare for the service, I tried to catch a glimpse behind the door: was he sitting there, peering back? (laughs) But I wasn't just interested in Catholicism - I read everything I could get my hands on. Roman and Greek mythology, fairy tales and fables, legends from all over the world ... that still influences me today. The second factor, which has certainly played an important role in the genesis of my thinking, is that I grew up in different countries, on different continents. And as children do, I absorbed everything as a matter of course: When we moved, I had to find my place in each new place - which made me very aware of my respective surroundings. I saw differences, but looked even harder for similarities ... and found them. The third factor is a combination of the above: When I lived in Nigeria, on the Ivory Coast, in Tunisia, I always had the feeling that the people and the rest of nature actually belonged together. Some of the houses my family lived in over the years had large verandas with doors leading out into spacious gardens. And if we forgot to close these doors, animals would come in; lizards or monkeys. That didn't bother anyone - it was normal. All in all, I was a child with a vivid imagination, which my parents encouraged rather than curbed. I saw a lot of the world early on - and I grew up, as much as this may sound like pathos, in "harmony" with nature. That's how I became who I am. I experienced connectedness before I could think about it. And, to be honest, I wish more children had this opportunity.
Aristotle always said that you shouldn't try to diminish the power of imagination or the childlike questioning of everything - then you would practically create a society of philosophers without further ado.
Exactly.
But many people lose the ability to devote themselves to the "big questions" in their lives, to wonder - and then they long for them, often without being able to name what they are missing. They have forgotten how to pause. Should your texts also serve as a reminder to transcend everyday life; to an experience that you had forgotten ... or to a world that once existed?
Allow me to address the second part of your statement first: I do not believe in idealizing the past. There was never an "Eden" at any point in history. Every era had its own problems, challenges and dramas. But I do believe - and this brings us to the first part of your question - that there were times when our assessment of the natural sciences and humanities was more balanced than in the present. Don't get me wrong: it was only thanks to the natural sciences that we were able to solve some of the major crises that our species has faced over the centuries. But I still take a critical view of the fact that we now often regard logic and rationality as the "royal road" to knowledge - while we diminish the value of the poetic, beauty, the spiritual ... and the value of feelings in discourse! The idea of "feeling something" and expressing it is downright frowned upon. I want my lyrics to be a memento ... not of a romanticized past that never really existed, no. But a reminder that it's okay - and valid - and wonderful - to feel. We lie and deceive ourselves when we claim that empirical research is more valuable than art ... and vice versa! What good is this sham dialectic anyway? I don't see what good it does us. Empiricism and emotion can coexist without any problems; and they have to if we want to understand life in all its fullness. Oh, now ... I'm sounding a bit esoteric, aren't I? Be honest! (laughs)
"We are lying to ourselves when we claim that empirical research is more valuable than art ... and vice versa!"
On the contrary, I agreed with your assessment. When I wanted to study philosophy and literature back then, friends advised me against it - I should study economics or law instead, that would be "safer". Some arguments were so forceful, as if the subject areas were on different planets ...
That's why I like "Poetry on the Subway" so much: posters with poems hang in the New York subway as a temporary bridge between "everyday life" and "art" - I deliberately put that in quotation marks, because you shouldn't have to build bridges a priori; you should never have separated the two. Be that as it may, when you get on the subway in New York City and a poem pops up between all the dirt and the hustle and bustle ... that's always something special for me.
... and something I can imagine as the subject of one of your columns!
Yes, because in such a moment many of the things we have already alluded to come together: Individual and community, filth and beauty, all at the same time. A great metaphor for life, isn't it? There's a lot of ugliness in the world, literally and figuratively, and that's why we need to orient ourselves towards the traces of beauty - not just aesthetic beauty, but a very broad idea of the term. And we have to learn to play again.
To play?
Yes, I was just thinking about that because we were talking earlier about children's ability to philosophize on their own. You know, children are not only born philosophers, they also play completely carefree - for most adults, that's unthinkable! You can play until you're ten or eleven years old, after that it gets serious (laughs). That's unfortunate, because in play we create space for discovery - space to discover new things about ourselves, but also to explore the world in a way we've perhaps never explored it before. As long as we see play, in whatever form, as something ... almost frivolous, as a waste of time, we deprive ourselves of the chance to make creative discoveries and breakthroughs. Some of my favorite artists - some of the most successful artists in the world - show a strong, playful sensibility in their work: I'm thinking of Olafur Eliasson, for example, who synthesizes nature, science and creativity in his installations ... and thus invites us to that very change of perspective we talked about at the very beginning.

Now, readers are less interested in what I have to say - but allow me to make two comments anyway: What you said about the flashes of beauty in everyday life reminds me of the final monologue of Paolo Sorrentino's film "La Grande Bellezza" - you can watch it if you want to understand you better. And what you say about "playful" art makes me think of Damien Hirst's "Spots": I always liked them far better than his depictions of death and decay, but I never dared to admit it. Thanks to you ... I now confess (laughs).
You have my permission to enjoy the "spots" (laughs). But ... you know, it's really worth thinking about the value of play. We need a childlike - not childish - approach to the world around us. That makes a big difference. I'm sure you have young parents in your family or circle of friends who describe how they rediscover life through the eyes of their children? This has to do with the fact that children make us aware of phenomena that we no longer consciously deal with: feeling the skin of a tomato between your fingers - peeling it - followed by the feeling that the inside of the fruit is completely different ... when was the last time you actively thought about something like this? You probably cook something that contains tomatoes every week or two, but you're not ... "in the moment" when you prepare it. Children are.
Yes, and ...
... Sorry, just a second. You mentioned Damien Hirst's "Spots" - I would like to follow on from that and express another thought. I assume you are familiar with the work of Yayoi Kusama? We know a lot about her life, her complex biography, her ongoing battle with mental illness. But Kusama turns the struggle into something that brings joy to other people - precisely because her art does not take itself too seriously, but forms a counterpoint to the seriousness of everyday life.
I am fascinated by how Kusama transforms pain into beauty - showing "pain as pain" would, I think, be less demanding.
I agree with you on that. Transforming pain - no matter into what - is an enormous challenge. But the step before transformation is just as important: first we have to accept that we are suffering and that we cannot escape the feeling. We've said it before ... the relationship with our emotional world is often less healthy than it should be; many people downplay what they carry with them. Either because they're afraid of it - or because they see the news and say, "What's my problem compared to the problems someone in a war zone is having?" But pain is pain. We have to accept that it is there, welcome it as a guest, deal with it - and then try to figure out what to do with it. I am convinced that we would be doing humanity as a whole a great favor if we were more open and honest about the pain we carry within us. We don't have to pour our hearts out to every person we meet. But we could change the discourse - and say: pain, suffering and grief are constants. They are part of us. They also connect us.

Anyone familiar with your texts will be reminded of the numerous columns in which you talk about the fragility and weaknesses of human nature. You often find your way in via visually accessible art - less often via literature or music. Why is that?
Visual art has an "immediate quality": we don't see something first, then think about it and finally feel something. Instead, we see something, feel something, and only then do we begin to think. Do you recognize the difference? Images are very, very powerful, whether they are paintings, photographs or the view of a sculpture. And I say that as a woman who has made writing and storytelling her profession! (laughs) However, pictures also tell stories. With the bonus that they can open up spaces within us to which language does not give us access - because language has its very own limits. A picture needs no translation. You don't have to speak French to visit an exhibition by a French painter. Art should not be elitist, and visual art is low-threshold art ... you just go and look at it! (laughs) If you want to write a clever book or become a critic, you may need to know history and symbolism, but otherwise - your eyes are enough.
Let's conclude by looking at a painting together: "Human Castle", a work by the contemporary artist Wonder Buhle Mbambo. I quote your description of the painting: "In the middle of a lush landscape, a totem of people can be seen, all together holding a child aloft. The child's hair suggests that it is a young girl - the face is unrecognizable, but the arm is stretched towards the sky. For me, the child embodies the hope of all those who carry it: the hope of perhaps not having made it themselves, but of being a step for the next generation." We haven't talked about politics today - but how do you keep hope alive in such divided times?
Did we really not talk about politics? We didn't talk about politicians or political parties. But we have talked about what it means to be human - and being human usually means, among many other things, living in a society as a citizen. Whether we vote, do community service or anything else ... we all have the power to influence the outcome of everything. We all have a place in the orchestra of life. It would be wise not to think only about the power to rule nations when we talk about politics. Rather, we should remember that we are important as individuals and that we can have a lasting impact within our environment. That's part of my recipe for staying optimistic. It gives me hope.
And the other part?
I am a believer. I believe that there are forces at work that are greater than what we are capable of understanding. I had mentioned my Catholic upbringing, but I wouldn't call these forces the "holy trinity". I don't have a definition for what I perceive as "divine" - but it's there, it's omnipresent. Billions of people have billions of personal belief systems that ultimately all refer to the same thing. This is also why - please excuse the somewhat worn-out comparison - I consider us to be one big family. A messed-up, dysfunctional family that sometimes simply forgets some of its members. But in an emergency ... we remember. Where else can I find optimism, where can I find hope? Beauty gives me hope. Poetry gives me hope. Kindness gives me hope. Generosity gives me hope. Seeing flowers bloom gives me hope - having plants in the house that turn towards the rising sun gives me hope. I like that they communicate with me in this way; that they tell me: "Get up from your desk, I want to be moved!" They need the light because they are growing and alive. And where there is life, there must be hope.
Enuma Okoro is a Nigerian-American journalist, writer, lecturer, curator and art and culture critic. Her weekly Financial Times column "The Art of Life" reflects her wide-ranging research and writing interests, such as how the intersection of art, philosophy, spirituality, ecology and culture can address and question the human condition, how we live with ourselves and each other, and how we integrate spirituality into our everyday lives.
This article first appeared in the m&k print edition 6-7/2024.























