I make a weekly pilgrimage every Sunday afternoon. After a long 30 minute metro ride, 10 minute bus ride, tucked deep in the bowels of the torpedo factory, Anthony’s studio in Alexandria feels like a whole world away. Sundays are particularly busy, and visitors fill the floors, milling in and out to see all the artists at work. I’m always in a rush because the trains are late, so 15 “excuse me’s” later, I stumble into his studio.
Anthony is a community. Every time I see him, someone new is there to see him. An old buddy from Nigeria, a dealer, an artist friend from next door. People cautiously approach his studio doorway, piqued by the bold, vibrant, but often confusing brushstrokes in his work. They’ll stare at the canvases, at him, and just as their gaze turns to the studio next door, Anthony notices them and loudly exclaims ‘come in!’— he throws open the doors of his world to them, and you have no choice but to enter.
This time, it was a football player and his dad, returning from Greece on break.
I set up my wooden art board in the back, partially hidden behind one of his 10ft by 6ft feet canvases, and start mixing my colors, and reviewing my composition sketches in my notebook. As I walk over to the bathroom to fill my water cup for cleaning my brushes, I can’t help but think about how I’m being perceived as a creator amongst a crowd of ambling consumers, as one of the studio artists-in-residence, just going about their routine. It feels weird, like I’m some amateur imposter.
As I start painting my piece (Anthony taught me that with acrylics, you always start with the lightest colors and gradually darken it as you commit to your composition), I try to channel all of Anthony’s lessons, all the practical tips, philosophical -isms from my mind toward my hands as I paint. It’s paralyzing at first, because I’m staring at a blank canvas and I really want to show Anthony that I’m applying what he’s teaching me towards what I’m making. I start with massing the color blocks together that form Frank Gehry’s signature buildings in my skyscraper, but I quickly realize that it’s too fat, and not the tall, slender, graceful structure that I envisioned. I start over.
Anthony sees the father/son off with a dap and a ‘Good luck in Greece! I’ll be watching you on TV someday. You embody Black excellence’. He comes over to check on my progress, and stares at my blank canvas with a confused look on his face. After I told him that I started over, he loudly exclaims (to my surprise): “Good job! You’re being bold. Bold enough to start over. Keep going.” I thought he would be mad that I didn’t fully commit to my composition, but with his surprising validation in hand, I continue.
About 15 minutes later, Anthony waves in 2 Ethiopian moms and their 2 10-year old girls to the studio. They talk for a bit, but seeing as the kids are really enthusiastic about his work, he offers to let them paint. “YAY! I want to make a flower.” I’m not the best with kids, but I help tape down their papers and get them water. The mom’s are a bit embarrassed by Anthony’s generosity but they laugh and joke with him as the kids start slathering green and red hues all over the paper (and the floor). They’re sharp kids though, when the moms joke that they should have them do art class with Anthony, the girls are like “we already have too many classes”. I chuckle to myself.
Anthony is an extremely chaotic and disorganized personality, who lives his life purely off of feel, spontaneity, and piling up everything he has in various corners of his studio (he lost his wallet on Friday and has not found it yet). I can really relate to the way he is, but it can be super overwhelming when I need to do practical assistant duties, or follow his train of thought. He has this crazy plan of hosting a creative party on a Wed, complete with professional bachata, hip-hop, and salsa dancers, a DJ playing afrobeats, and painting stations for the public. On top of that, he’ll be painting on 4 different canvases at one time. It’s madness. It sounds like something I’d try to pull off.
We don’t balance each other out at all; we feed off of each other in a way. As the girls are painting, he decides he needs to take pictures of two of his art pieces that are outgoing to customers, so we maneuver two canvases over both the painting girls and the sitting moms into a rickety trolley that he pushes into the elevator. I follow him downstairs and he takes his photos outside in the drizzle.
The girls finish their painting, and I take pictures of them with Anthony. The mom’s are super thankful and when Anthony asks where they’re from, he’s like “I’m Nigerian. We’re related. All Africans are related.” I found that really endearing.
I feel like there’s something special spiritually about Anthony, about the space he creates, the energy he gives off. It’s radical generosity, not only with his time, his wisdom, but also materially. A pregnant lady and her friend peek in, and after a 5 minute conversation, he decides to give her a gift ‘for her pregnancy’, and retrieves a brand new colorful fabric handbag, still wrapped in plastic. Her eyes light up, and she exclaims: “oh! I’m a seamstress. This is the perfect gift!” Anthony sees this as a special connection, and shows her his sewing machine (buried beneath 3 canvases and used camera lenses), and she shares about her experiences teaching sewing classes in Namibia. It’s a beautiful exchange.
He really believes that God puts everyone in his life for a reason, and that there are no chance encounters. Everyone is put in his life to teach him something new, he explains to me as I darken my color blocks. I don’t have time to emotionally process everything because someone else always appears at his door. A fellow artist comes over to ask for camera tips. A longtime writer friend and her buddy came over to catch up. As a greeting, he dances with them.
It’s just so surreal seeing the world walk through Anthony’s doors. While the constant flow of visitors is life-giving, they all make me feel extremely self-conscious of my own presence in Anthony’s space. It’s like I’m this random kid in the back, painting away on his own little book while Anthony explains the intricacies of his 10ft by 6ft masterpiece and how it sold for $12,000. With every new visitor, I feel like I’m being tested on whether or not my ability and my identity as an artist is ‘legitimate’ enough to measure up to the gaze of a seasoned collector or artist in residence. It doesn’t help that my style is very playful but also childish—like my abstract color strokes and shapes feel fake compared to Anthony’s. I know it’s not true and no one except for myself truly believes that. Sometimes I feel like I’m just making something and delivering it to Anthony, hoping that he’ll like it, and if he does, I’ll know I have done well. Sometimes I think he’s just being nice whenever he compliments me, and secretly thinks I don’t have what it takes. But I should know that he’s so genuine that he means what he says. It’s just something I have to overcome every time I step into his world.
I finish my piece, sign it, and present it to him with my own thoughts on my inspiration and color choices. Of course he knows who Frank Gehry is. He says ‘Good job. You have done well’. It feels great, but I realized that this time I was happy with it myself first.
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