Nigerian Modernism review: sacred groves, a shackled king and astonishing hair
This ambitious, sweeping exhibition, Nigerian Modernism: Art and Independence, attempts to map out how modern art in Nigeria developed from colonial times through to the end of the 20th century. It focuses on individual artists and creative groups, exploring alliances and movements in a country shaped by colonialism, civil war, and deep divides of language, faith, and culture.
The show opens with art from Nigeria under British rule, such as academic-style portraits by Aina Onabolu and Akinola Lasekan, alongside mythical scenes and depictions of Yoruba dancers. These are placed in contrast with early carved wooden door panels dating around 1910–1914 showing British officers escorted by shackled bearers, likely heading to meet the Ogoga (king) of Ikere. The image of the colonial figure carried aloft, with his captives below, carries a haunting sense of power and deference.
Photographs by Jonathan Adagogo Green remind us of the brutal realities of colonial conquest, one shows the deposed king of Benin chained aboard a British ship after the 1897 invasion of Benin City. The tension in these staged images, of regal power, displacement, and humiliation, is sharp.
Then we move into the work of Ben Enwonwu (1917–94), a central figure in this narrative who embodied multiple roles: painter, sculptor, educator. His work spans ritual dancers, pieces celebrating Eid, watercolours engaging with myth, and even a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. One striking group from 1960 depicts readers with newspapers that seem to evolve into wings, some astonished, some transfixed, showing Enwonwu’s skill at blending realism, mythology, and metaphor.
The exhibition also gives room to artistic collectives. A key example is the Zaria Society, formed by students wanting something beyond the Eurocentric curriculum, and the Mbari Club, which became a hub of art and literature in southwestern Nigeria. Their works, particularly in the late 1950s, often show a semi-abstract or figurative style, strained, vivid, sometimes tortured, mirroring both global modernist trends and Nigeria’s urgent and fraught historical moment.
One feature of the show is Lagos in its post-independence vigor: modernist architecture, album covers of Highlife music, vibrant photography, especially by JD ’Okhai Ojeikere with his sculptural hairstyles, together attempt to evoke the energy of a newly independent society. However, some parts feel muted: the sounds and vibrations of Lagos don’t always carry through strongly in this gallery setting.
In Osogbo, the sacred groves devoted to the Yoruba deities feature in works by Susanne Wenger (an Austrian-born artist who became deeply involved in Yoruba culture) and the Oshogbo School. Their art mixes myth, religion, craft, and belief. One of the most compelling figures here is Twins Seven Seven, whose densely detailed, imagination-swarm paintings teem with spirits, ghosts, and creatures. They are electric and full of life.
Approaching the end of the exhibition, we encounter work that is reflective, even uneasy. Obiora Udechukwu’s Our Journey (1993) is a sweeping, almost abstract piece with small human figures and symbols spiraling across a field of yellow paint, beautifully unsettling. Uzo Egonu (1931–96), who spent much of his life in the UK, contributes work that blurs place and time: urban scenes, isolated individuals, structures that suggest geometry and order but also constraint. His art feels modern in a way that seems to resist easy anchoring in a specific moment or place.
The show ends on an abrupt note, reminding viewers that the story of Nigerian art is unfinished. There are questions unanswered, transitions ongoing. The past is messy, powerful, and deeply bound up with what Nigeria might become.