“I love freedom. I love that my works are autonomous” says Nigerian born artist, Toyin Ojih Odutola. In “Ilé Oriaku,” currently on view at Jack Shainman Gallery in New York, Ojih Odutola invites viewers into perhaps her most personal show yet—-a tribute to her late grandmother, Josephine Oriaku Ojih. Born from the grief that enveloped Ojih Odutola some years ago, “Ilé Oriaku” is more than an homage, it’s a channeling of spirit and energy.
Turning to drawing as a way to transmute her emotions, Ojih Odutola became a vessel for stories that seemed to write themselves, drawing deeply from her Igbo and Yoruba heritage. Among these visual narratives is a meditation on the Aba Women’s Rebellion, a pivotal moment in West African anti-colonial history, when thousands of Igbo women organized a massive revolt against the policies imposed by British colonial administrators in southeastern Nigeria. The piece, “Nwanyeruwa (Aba Women’s Rebellion),” which depicts this moment, feels monumental and venerative in its assemblage. Ojih Odutola stops underneath the image and affirms, “These are the types of stories we should know about.”
There is no doubt about the reverence and love Ojih Odutola has for Black women and femmes, and for Black people period. The 31-piece show features works that range in scale and medium, moving between intimately sized graphite colored pencil drawings and six-foot paintings fashioned as diptychs and triptychs.
Ojih Odutola brims with joy as she walks me through the gallery, an old Beaux-Arts bank hall. The oversized space serves as an impressive backdrop to the mix of warm hues, intentionally accented with moments of red, lilac, green, and pink that punctuate her work. She explains that “Ilé Oriaku”—-a combination of Yoruba and Igbo words—-translates to House of Abundance, and that “Oriaku” was also her grandmother’s name. In this sense, Ojih Odutola carries her grandmother with her, honoring her namesake in this generous and unfolding series of works that are centered around a “Mbari” house, a sacred, ceremonial clay structure central to Igbo cultural and spiritual practice.
Ojih Odutola lets her figures guide her in their assembly. She explains that their clothes—some evocative of vintage Comme des Garçons—are fashioned as a second skin and move with her figures, gesturing toward a type of freedom that she insists upon as an artist and world-maker. Ojih Odutola’s figures breathe and exist fully in their black and brown hues, unrestricted from categorization, be it gender or otherwise. In this sense, Ojih Odutola is a vessel for their stories, letting her figures speak to and through her. At its core, “Ilé Oriaku” extends beyond figuration, style, or form—it is a welcoming of the ancestors.
Below ESSENCE catches up with Toyin Ojih Odutola over a robust conversation centering on the inspirations behind her latest exhibition “Ilé Oriaku,” the textiles and fashion pieces featured in her work, and more.
How has remembrance and grief shaped your latest exhibition ‘Ilé Oriaku’?
After my grandmother passed away, the only place where I could collect myself was when I was drawing. It was the one activity where I felt gathered similar to the way my grandmother would gather us. And it’s very difficult to describe that to people in America, where grief means everyone wears black and it’s all very morose.
I feel that grief is the moment we choose to revere and let life happen. While mourning my grandmother, I was laughing! I would have moments when I was drawing something, I would think, “She’s going to get a kick out of this one.” I felt the pain and I cried a lot, but more than anything I thought, “she’d probably chuckle at the new one. It wasn’t just the pain, it was joy too. She loves my drawing.
Your figures often appear clothed in richly detailed textiles and garments that seem to carry as much weight as the subjects themselves. There’s at once a regality and also a deep sense of familiarity in the figures that you draw forth in “Ilé Oriaku.” How do you think about fashion as a narrative device in your work?
With this show in particular, I was thinking about free-flowing fabric that wasn’t restrictive, but that worked with the body, with the presence of the figures. In this way, their veils and gloves almost became something that just was a part of their body. It didn’t feel like it was a separate thing they put on. It’s just who they are.
I view skin as material. So I’d start drawing this tunic in this shape that would compliment the figures no matter the size of their figure. It always looked good. It was a bit of an everyday uniform. In this sense, fashion functions in a very instinctive way on my figures. I want them to be free regardless of the story I’m telling.
There’s nothing restrictive about the way the clothing sits on your figures. They can move and be free in such a beautiful way. And especially on Black folks, seeing that sort of movement with such deep intention is powerful. There are a lot of jewel toned colors in this show. How does color, and by extension adornment, serve as a way to signal spiritual or emotional states within your work?
Every series I do always has to compliment the variegated tones of black and brown skin. Early on in my career, I looked at our skin as a dialect. If someone is lighter in skin as opposed to someone who’s darker, I’d understand this variation as a different dialect. Our skin is glorious and it speaks volumes. So when I’m trying to depict these hues, I depict them in layers, with ripples. Our skin is not flat, it’s not just one thing.
So you see all these colors and tones that seem discordant in any other place, but on our skin it just feels just right. For every palette that I pick for each of my series, I’m thinking about what complements this variegation and multiplicity. It can’t just be any color, it has to be a color that is intentional and will meld perfectly. The bright reds, the yellows, the greens and the jewel tones are always accents. Because everything else is grounded in something that’s very earthy and real, but then I’ll have a little pops of red, orange, or lilac. It adds this whimsical element.
How does fashion function as an archival tool? Can you speak about remembrance as a visual language?
Fashion functions in so many ways, and I love fashion for what it can express as long as it can express freedom of being and movement. The name of this show, “Ilé Oriaku” translates to “House of Abundance,” which is evocative of ballroom culture. So in this sense, I am also leaning into queerness. One of the pieces in this show is a triptych, where I’m nodding to the third person singular and the idea that in many indigenous cultures including my own culture, gender is not simply a binary.
So much of our history is about how our bodies and expression has been restricted— this limitation does not exist in my imagery, and it never will. I want everyone who comes and views my work to feel welcomed. So there are these moments where fashion is expressed in this genderless form—-it’s all about freedom.
You let your work and figures unfold in a way that is beautiful to witness. You are a vessel for these stories to unfold in a way that feels so reflective of the spiritual and cultural traditions of your Igbo and Yoruba heritage.
I give this work all my attention and consideration. I give it everything. It’s respect, it’s real veneration.
Can you share how your own diasporic experience moving between Nigeria and the United States, as well as how themes of memory, belonging, and temporality shape your work?
As a young person, I felt a lot of loss. It’s just not a fun place to be as a kid. You know, this feeling of like, ‘oh, well, I don’t know, I’m just a half person because the thing that I lost is my home. When I draw, I’m making home and reclaiming home. That’s part of my diasporic experience. I’ve always felt that if I have a piece of paper and a graphite colored pencil, then I’m never without a home. I feel that way no matter where I am. Painting and drawing are homemaking for me—I think that this is memory work. I’m not reclaiming anything per say, I’m just remembering.
I’d like to close where we started off, with your grandmother. This show is in so many ways an homage to her life and legacy. What does “Oraiku,” abundance mean to you?
I used to feel like abundance was like something out of reach for me, like I always had to suffer and struggle in order to prove something. But in making this body of work, I realized these stories and figures had been here the entire time. You know when you have that moment where you’re in the zone, where everything is flowing and you don’t even have to try? That’s what abundance is for me. When everything is in tune and my mind and spirit and hands are streamlined—there’s no resistance.
A name is a promise. And they gave my grandmother the name, Oriaku. And my grandmother gave my mother an alternative of her name. And my mother gave me that name, which is my middle name. So I also have an alternative of Oriaku. And it was a promise. I’m here to enjoy Oriaku. I’ll always be fed and I will never go without.