The Magic of Mariane Ibrahim Gallery

I never leave Mariane Ibrahim Gallery without a peaceful heart, an uplifting story, and the inspiration to write. Tonight, the night of the opening reception of Amoako Boafo’s The One That Got Away, I arrived alone but excited to experience the art; and I ended the night in the warm, friendly company of five beautiful Black women. But let’s back up for a bit.

In May of 2022, I embarked on my first solo trip to Paris, France. I stepped out of Charles de Gaulle with basic French and a list of sparsely googled museums and galleries that would help me fulfill my desire to experience all the Blackness Paris had to offer. One Saturday morning I made my way to Mariane Ibrahim Gallery, ignorant to the impact it would have. On display was Amoako Boafo’s Inside Out. I sat for a long while on the blue sofa of the gallery’s second story, and stared in awe at the vibrant pieces on the walls. I’d never before had such an inexplicably touching experience with art. That trip to Paris, and my experience at Mariane Ibrahim Gallery inspired me to seek out Black art and culture everywhere I traveled.

In February 2023, I visited Chicago and Mariane Ibrahim Gallery was top of my list of Black culture experiences in the city. This time, it was the group exhibition Hauntology: Ghostly Matters, and particularly Olukemi Lijadu’s film that completely blew me away. I once again saw deep parts of me reflected on the white walls of the gallery. Not to mention, I met a lovely friend at the gallery who I seamlessly connecting with over art, culture, language, and heritage.

So, this year as I began my journey as a nomad – a journey afforded to me by a job in which I literally study the state of Blackness in the Americas – I knew that, everywhere I went, my top priority would be discovering the diasporic magic of each place I visited. Mexico City is my first destination and, to be honest, the Mariane Ibrahim Gallery is the entire reason I came. The gallery’s third location opened here early last year, and I knew I had to witness it. And when I got an email about an opening reception for a new exhibit – of none other than the artist who I was first introduced to – I knew I had to attend.

As I mentioned, my main goal for this new nomad journey is to uncover the Black culture of the places I visit. And to be frank, Mexico City has posed quite the challenge. Of course there are Black people in Mexico City, but most of Mexico’s afrodiasporic culture and people are based in other parts of the country. While I encounter Black people on a fairly regular basis, it’s been quite difficult to find Afro-Mexican culture here in the city, and that’s been a bit disappointing.

When I entered Mariane Ibrahim Gallery tonight, I was met with the very Black art of Ghanaian Amoako Boafo, and I could see the whole diaspora before my eyes: Black art on the walls, Black people in the rooms, Black clothes on Black bodies, and Spanish, French, and English mingling through the air. After slowly and thoughtfully making my way through the exhibit, I mustered up the courage to approach a group of Black women (English speaking and American accent having) in the courtyard. They welcomed me warmly, and we quickly figured out that we had a mutual friend who was actually on her way to the event. Armed with my new crew (very helpful for introverts such as myself) I met many new people throughout the night. People hailing from the coasts of West Africa to the Caribbean Sea, and we all collectively marveled at the art that reminded us of home and our families and ourselves.

I plan to return to the gallery to muse on the art with less of a crowd. But even with the commotion of tonight, I knew that I made the right decision and that I am exactly where I need to be. My wild and fantastical decision to sell all of my possessions and leave the city in which I had so intentionally made a home for a dream to travel the world and discover the African diaspora has actually come to fruition.

While I’m still on the lookout to learn more about Afro-Mexican culture from Afro-Mexican people, I feel as though I’m on the right track. And if there’s one thing this new lifestyle has taught me in my short experience, it’s to take things as they come. So, “on the right track” has me more than content. And I’m so grateful to Mariane Ibrahim Gallery for continuing to blow me away with exceptional and inspirational Black art all around the world.

Signed,

N.A.

Soft Luxury in Chicago

The Mariane Ibrahim gallery is a consistently edifying experience. Last year, I found myself stunned and awed at the Mariane Ibrahim gallery in Paris. Stunned because who knew that my whimsical decision to explore Blackness in Paris could lead me to such a breathtaking experience? And awed because of the inspiration and comfort I felt in the face of Amoako Boafo’s expansive painting of a woman playing tennis. This moment was the impetus for my continued whimsy, and led to my walking into the Mariane Ibrahim gallery in Chicago’s West Town 9 months later.

What I felt this time was once again unpredictable. I was met in the entrance by a list of names, unknown to me, yet familiar in their Nigerian-ness. Upon seeing the first painting, I exhaled a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. As I strolled, I was enveloped by feminine energy, Blackness, and a sound that embodied all the lovely parts of noise and all the juicy parts of quiet.

The highlight of my sojourn in the gallery this time around was the viewing of Olukemi Lijadu’s Guardian Angel. A piece which touched on love and history, family and art, religion and colonialism. In short, everything I could have asked for.

The Mariane Ibrahim gallery is a soft luxury that always rejuvenates my spirit. It was the ostentatious centerpiece of my Chicago experience.

My first stop in Chicago was Semicolon bookstore, a Black woman owned bookstore in River West. The store has a very homey vibe and the shelves are filled with every genre of Black literature a diaspora loving bibliophile like myself can enjoy. While there I bought a womanist poetry anthology: Wild Imperfections; I immediately sat down in the store to read and instantly felt I had started my trip off on the right foot.

Gallery Guichard in Bronzeville showcased dynamic art from across Africa and it’s diaspora, with an air of friendship and community wafting through the gallery as artists spoke of their drive to create.

Sofar Chicago’s Black History Month show in the historic building that was once Vee-Jay Records featured the incredible Mara Love. Mara blessed the audience with a deep soulful voice that seemed a serendipitous throwback to the legends who once recorded in the same space.

The American Writers Museum is an homage to literary legends and a muse to literary legends to be. There I learned: Your words will live forever, and will inspire the people your dreams are not even capable of imagining.

Slow is my poem reflecting on the many poems of Wild Imperfections that accompanied me around Chicago.

Slow

Your wild imperfection
you're perfectly wild

My companion
as I roam
this city
remind me 
rest; read

Teach me
wait
read, see, feel
the last word
the last touch
of ink on page

Before
moving fingers
turn the page

I am 
a slow learner
then become
slow, learning

Signed,

N.A.

A Birthday Off the Beaten Path

About a month ago, I received an enthusiastic text message from my best friend congratulating me for amassing a “whole crew” of friends with whom to celebrate my 25th birthday. Earlier that week I had in included her in a group chat of a whopping seven people with the purpose of making birthday plans. Given that I’m still settling in to a new city, and knowing all too well my proclivity for introversion and my usual no new friends attitude, I assume my friend was as impressed by my interest in celebrating with a group of mostly new friends as she was by the fact of their mere existence.

I basked in her recognition of my feat, but quickly reminded her that I was offsetting this unusual exhibition of extroversion by literally fleeing the country to spend five days alone in a city I’d never been to and where my knowledge of the language was beginner at best.

Following the lead of my inner nomad, I’ve slowly inched travel closer and closer to the top of my priority list. And though I’ve had the privilege of travelling quite a bit throughout my life, this trip to Paris, for my 25th birthday, is my first ever solo trip. Not only am I traveling alone, I also had no plans to meet anyone upon my arrival. Though this was daunting, I also recognized it as a wonderful opportunity to do anything and only things I wanted to do. So when I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport on Thursday morning, I intentionally slowed my pace and made the conscious decision and promise to myself that I would not rush or hurry anywhere for the duration of my time in the City of Light.

Prior to a few months ago, I had no real interest in visiting Paris, or France in general for that matter. As someone immersed in the world of international human rights, when I thought of France the first things that came to mind were islamophobic laws masked in the name of secularism and women getting arrested on the beach for wearing burqinis; not exactly an inviting vision. Though I’m not Muslim, nor do I cover my hair for religious purposes, as a young Black woman planning a solo trip to a foreign country, systemic racism was not really the attraction I was looking for. But just as my plans to visit another city seemed to be falling through, I stumbled upon a podcast talking about all of the incredible contributions Black people from Africa and across the diaspora have made to Paris throughout the city’s history. The podcast mentioned a bookstore and publishing house called Présence Africaine that published some of the 20th century’s great Black writers. Instantly, I was hooked!

As I moseyed through Paris at the intentionally slow pace I set for myself at the beginning of my trip, I reveled in the pockets of Blackness I found all around: the cozy and warm interior of Présence Africaine; the Ivorian food stuffs shop where the owner, Ivan, jarred peanut butter at the checkout desk and the shelves were filled with more variations of farine than I knew existed; quiet moments I shared with myself and the painted humans on the walls on the comfy couch on the second floor of Mariane Ibrahim gallery, rising from the metro at Barbès to a microcosm of African street fashion, the flavorful heap of caramelized onions at Madiba Afro Hot Dogs, the slow and steady of the rocking chair I sat on in Nil Gallery surrounded by the work of Prince Gyasi and Abe Odedina. All of these things filled me with so much light.

Paris is known as the City of Light. For me, the Blackness of the city, the Black food, the Black art, the vibrant Black energy are what really make the moniker ring true.

I don’t know when or if I’ll return to Paris, but, as my trip comes to a close, I feel the sweetest sense of satisfaction. My first solo trip is in the books, and in celebration of my 25th birthday and the trajectory in which I hope to move, it was slow, and restful, and very Black.

Turns out five days alone in a new city was just the refresh I needed to hype me up for a celebratory night out with my “whole crew.”

Signed,

N.A.

p.s. If you enjoy the Signed, N.A. blog (or you’d just like to wish me happy birthday), please do subscribe and share with a friend.