With nearly four decades of creation under his belt, Okechukwu Eze is far from a typical studio artist. A sculptor, environmentalist, and sharp businessman, he embodies the dynamic hustle of Lagos.

We sat down with him to talk about his artistic heritage, his relationship with family and business, and the vibrant chaos that fuels his multidimensional craft.

On The Meaning Of His Name:

“Okechukwu means ‘the Share of God.’ I believe that name is also why we have a lot of creative people in my family — we are from the lineage of God. We come from Anambra State, particularly Awka, which is known for its wide range of innovations and creations.

My family initially didn’t want me to become an artist because my forefathers were sculptors as well, and they feared my sculptures might turn out to be fetish, just like the sculptors before me.”

On Passing the Torch to “The Okechukwus”:

“Family plays a huge role in any creative journey. While I might not have had the best nuclear family support in the early stages of my art career, I’ve also experienced some of the best moments as an artist through family.

My son won an award as the best art student in his school, and I feel proud to be a role model to a child who is as talented as he is. My daughter is also a talented writer. I like to think they are inspired because their father is an artist who proves to them the value of art — both in a personal, artistic sense and financially.”

On Fearing the Canvas in 1990s Lagos:

“My earliest art memories in Lagos go back to the late nineties, a few years after I finished secondary school. My grades weren’t the best, so I couldn’t go straight to art school. Instead, I took up an apprenticeship at my sister’s shop, and that was when I first started making money off my art.

It was almost unbelievable to me at the time. I would go to Artworld in Yaba to buy pencils for my drawings. Back then, I believed painting was only for the masters. I had a fear of actually putting paint to canvas, so I stuck strictly to drawing media. But Lagos, being the opportunity-filled state that it is, gave me a chance to pick up painting commissions and sign-making, allowing me to build something for myself.”

On Refusing to Be Boxed into a Single Style:

“Personally, I refuse to have a single style. I love to experiment with media and styles regularly and not stay boxed in because art is nuanced and multilayered.

As an environmentalist, whenever I notice a pileup of pollution, I make art out of recycled materials — partially as a way to combat the waste and as a message to deter polluters. Lately, I’ve also loved recycling magazines for my pieces. What makes my artwork mine is the raw texture and unmistakable creativity.”

On Lagos as a Palette:

“A typical workday is unpredictable. You might have a canvas stretched but not feel inspired to paint a single stroke. But I am deeply inspired by what happens around me. Lagos is a very chaotic place, and that’s why it’s one of my favourite subjects.

Lagos is weird. You can buy almost anything on the roadside, and everyday characters look like they walked out of a cheesy Nollywood comedy. That’s what makes it the most inspiring place. It dictates my colour palette, which remains mostly nature-themed, as I believe the ultimate artist is none other than God Himself.”

On Juggling Being a Businessman and an Artist:

“I’m an Igbo man and a hustler. It’s no secret to Nigerians that Igbo people conduct business on a shrewd, clever scale. By the time I entered university, I already had my art business alongside another small venture, which meant my time for painting became limited. I had to strictly schedule particular days to paint.

Because art is so vast, I expanded my reach — from selling physical art internationally to selling creative concepts to artists and business owners. I direct and collaborate with art partners and mentorship protégés in a symbiosis of sorts. A few of these protégés are currently doing big things on their own, and I’m deeply proud of them.”

On Studio Atmosphere, and Enya:

“If someone stepped inside one of my paintings, they would definitely smell ‘Gardening’ first because I’m a Stoner — a stone sculptor, that is. I live proud as a Stoner because I live healthy, and I don’t depend on any substances for creative inspiration.

As for a studio soundtrack, I am eclectic. I listen to old-school Afro music like Majek Fashek, reggae, and lately, I’ve gotten deeply into Enya — I listened to Enya all through last night till this morning.

Although sometimes, I don’t want to hear any sound at all. I like the silence. Like my teacher used to say, ‘Music is a drug,’ and realistically, one cannot be high all the time at work, even with such a beautiful, uplifting drug.”

Words of Wisdom To Young Artists; Rejecting the Illusion of Perfection:

"Young artists of this generation are the luckiest. Most art resources back in the day were hard to get, and formal training was difficult to access. Now, resources are all over the internet. The old saying goes 'practice makes perfect,' but to be honest, I think consistent practice simply equates to growth. Perfection is an illusion."

EXPLORE OKECHUKWU EZE'S COLLECTION

See You This Weekend

If you’re in London, stop by Indra Gallery on August 29th or 30th. Browse the collection in person, meet the artdey team, and take home something original.

📍 Indra Gallery, 20 East Road, Old Street, N1 6AT, London
🗓 August 29-30 | 12pm-9pm

Pre-order now and pick up at the pop-up.

SHOP THE COLLECTION

— Alex

London, we’re bringing artdey to you.

On August 29th and 30th, artdey and NACK Apparel are coming together for a special London pop-up at 20 East Road, Old Street, London, N1 6AT. From 12pm to 9pm both days, you can explore NACK Apparel’s fashion alongside a collection of framed miniature paintings from artdey.

No shipping costs. No waiting. No “I’ll frame it later.” Just original African art, ready to hang the moment you get home.

SHOP THE POP-UP COLLECTION

Why this pop-up is different

Already framed. Every miniature painting we’re bringing to London arrives ready to hang. No trips to the framer. No extra costs. Pick your piece and put it on your wall the same day.

Great prices. Miniatures are the most accessible way to own original African art. You’re not buying a print or a reproduction. You’re buying a one-of-a-kind painting at a price that doesn’t require a second opinion.

No shipping. Order online, pick up in person. You skip the delivery fees and the wait. We skip the bubble wrap. Everyone wins.

Lagos Wahala 1, 2 & 3 - $150 Each

Miniature works have a particular charm. They invite you to look closer, notice the details and consider how a smaller artwork can completely change a space. Whether you’re starting your collection, adding to it, or simply curious about what artdey has to offer, there will be plenty to discover.

How it works: Browse the collection online or in person. Order your artwork. Pick it up at the pop-up. Find a wall for it.

Simple.

Art, fashion and a weekend in Old Street.

The artdey and NACK Apparel collaboration is about bringing two creative worlds into the same space. NACK Apparel brings its perspective on fashion, while artdey brings original artworks and the opportunity to experience African art in a more personal and accessible way.

For two days, 20 East Road becomes a meeting point for fashion, art and people who enjoy discovering something a little different.

Mother and The Toy Cars - $40 Each

So if you are in London on the 29th or 30th of August, come through and spend some time with us.

artdey x NACK Apparel London Pop Up

29th and 30th August

12pm to 9pm each day

20 East Road, Old Street, London, N1 6AT

Come for the collaboration. Browse the fashion. Look closely at the paintings. You might just leave with something beautiful for your wall.

-Alex

SHOP THE POP-UP COLLECTION

I went to see Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey at the Lekki IMAX in Lagos, with company, which I am increasingly convinced is the correct way to see a film like this. There is something about watching a huge piece of cinema with someone beside you, reacting to the same ridiculous spectacle in real time. It makes the whole thing feel less like watching a movie and more like attending an event.

The film is ridiculously star-studded too, but thankfully it never feels like a parade of famous people wearing ancient clothes. The story does enough of the heavy lifting that the recognisable faces become part of the experience rather than the entire point of it. I especially loved the smaller celebrity cameos; seeing Travis Scott appear genuinely made me sit up in my seat. There is something very funny about watching an ancient Greek epic and suddenly recognising Travis Scott, but somehow it worked.

What really pulled me into the world, though, were the landscapes. The beaches, cliffs, caves and enormous stretches of water don't feel like scenery placed behind the characters. They feel ancient and imposing, almost as though the landscape itself is participating in the story. With the film using real locations across places like Greece, Morocco, Italy, Malta, Iceland and Scotland, that physicality comes through beautifully.

There is something about a landscape that can do more than tell us where a story is happening. The right landscape can carry a mood all by itself, making us feel small, nostalgic, uneasy or strangely at home. That is perhaps what makes landscape in art so interesting too; sometimes a place can become the story.

The Odyssey understands this particularly well. The world feels old, enormous and occasionally hostile, which is probably appropriate for a man who has spent most of the story trying desperately to get home.

The colour was another thing I loved. Rather than filling the screen with bright, poppy colours, the film has a restrained, almost desaturated quality that gives everything a heavier, more epic feeling. It makes the world feel less like a fantasy postcard and more like something recovered from an old story, still carrying a little dust from wherever it had been sitting for the last few thousand years.

Colour can tell us how to feel about what we're looking at just as easily as it can make an image beautiful. Warm reds and yellows can make a place feel alive, while colder or more muted tones can make the same scene feel distant or melancholic. The Odyssey uses that restraint extremely well

Then there was the sound. The combination of the soundtrack, the enormous screen and the scale of the imagery made the cinema itself feel like part of the film.

The cinema was also so cold that I briefly wondered if this was another Nolan production choice. At one point, the woman beside me had to take the scarf covering her hijab and use it to cover her arms. So yes, we were apparently not only entering ancient Greece; we were also being asked to survive its winter.

My relationship with the mythology made some of my reactions to the film more personal. I had previously read Madeline Miller's Circe, which gave me a much deeper connection to Circe's character and eventually pushed me to reread The Odyssey. Because of that, I didn't quite connect with Nolan's depiction of Circe as much as I wanted to. It reminded me how much our previous encounters with art influence the way we experience new interpretations.

I felt something similar with Scylla, the six-headed monster opposite Charybdis. The Cyclops received such an incredible visual treatment that I found myself wishing Scylla had been given more time and presence. I understand the choice to keep her mysterious and partially hidden, but personally, I wanted more of the monster I had spent so much time imagining.

And maybe that's one of the most interesting things about art. We never really experience a new work completely on its own because we bring everything we've seen, read and felt before into the room with us. A painting reminds us of another painting, a song changes the way we remember something, and a film can make an old story feel completely new while also reminding us of the version we already carried around in our heads.

That is also why I think seeing something like The Odyssey with company makes the experience better. Solo cinema dates are great, but there is something special about leaving a film with somebody and immediately asking, "Did you see that?" You get to compare what stayed with each of you, argue about the things you loved, complain about the things you didn't and discover that two people can sit through the exact same film and walk away carrying completely different versions of it.

For me, that was the real pleasure of the night. The Odyssey isn't just an enormous movie; it is a collection of artistic decisions working together. Landscape, colour, sound, performance, cinematography and mythology all become part of one enormous visual language, and for a few hours, the cinema gives you somewhere else to exist.

Sometimes the artwork is hanging quietly on a wall. Sometimes it is forty feet tall, accompanied by an orchestra, projected in the dark, and cold enough to make you question whether you should have brought a blanket. Either way, you’re still sitting in front of an artist asking you to look at something and feel it differently.

If you’re in the mood to keep looking:

BROWSE THE COLLECTION

- Alex

artdey is an online marketplace for original contemporary African art, sourced directly from emerging artists in Nigeria and Ghana.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they look around their room and realize something isn’t quite right. The bed is where it’s supposed to be. The chair is doing an admirable job of being a chair. There’s probably a lonely houseplant in the corner trying its best. Yet the whole place still feels like it was assembled by someone who clicked “Accept Default Settings” and never looked back.

Then somebody says the five words that change everything.

“You should get some art.”

Immediately, your brain starts negotiating with itself. Art? Isn’t that something people buy after they’ve purchased their third vacation home? Surely collecting art begins with walking into a silent white gallery while someone wearing expensive glasses nods approvingly as you spend the equivalent of a small car on a painting you don’t fully understand.

Thankfully, that’s mostly fiction.

Every art collector you’ve ever admired once stood exactly where you are now. They weren’t born knowing the difference between a print and an original. They didn’t magically wake up with perfectly curated walls and impeccable taste. They simply found one piece they genuinely loved, brought it home, and unknowingly started a collection.

That’s the part people often miss.

An art collection isn’t something you decide to have one Saturday afternoon. It grows quietly. One painting becomes two. Two become four. Before long, you’re moving furniture three inches to the left because a new piece deserves better lighting. Congratulations. You’re one of us now.

The best part is that none of this depends on having an enormous budget. Somewhere along the way we’ve confused collecting art with collecting expensive art, and those are two very different hobbies. Original paintings are wonderful, but they’re not the only doorway into collecting. If you’re just getting started, prints are one of the smartest purchases you can make.

If you walked into my room, you probably wouldn’t describe it as minimalist. It’s a complete hodgepodge. There are prints on the walls, pages cut from old magazines, postcards, little sketches, and artwork that’s somehow found its way into places it probably wasn’t meant to live. It doesn’t look like it came from a furniture showroom, and that’s exactly why I like it.

The funny thing is that you could probably learn quite a bit about me just by standing there for a minute. You’d notice the films I’m drawn to, the music I love, the colours I keep coming back to, and the artists whose work refuses to leave my mind. None of it was arranged to impress anyone. It simply became a wall full of things I wanted to keep looking at.

A good print gives you the chance to live with an image that genuinely moves you without asking your bank account to perform miracles. It lets you discover the kinds of artists, colours and styles you’re naturally drawn to. As your taste grows, your collection grows with it. There’s no prize for starting with the most expensive piece in the room.

Here's another myth worth retiring: everything does not need to be framed immediately.

If you’ve bought a print on paper, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with displaying it in a simple way while you decide what you want to do long term. Washi tape has become a favourite for good reason. It’s gentle on paper, easy to remove and gives prints a relaxed, contemporary look. Removable adhesive strips, magnetic poster hangers and clip frames are all great options too, especially if you’re renting or simply don’t feel like introducing a drill to your wall every other weekend.

Original paintings on canvas are a little different. Those deserve to be stretched properly and, if you choose, framed in a way that complements rather than competes with the artwork. Think of it less as putting the painting in fancy clothes and more as helping it settle comfortably into its new home.

One mistake many new collectors make is believing every wall needs to be finished immediately. Empty space isn’t failure. In fact, a little breathing room often makes the artwork you already own feel even stronger. The most beautiful homes aren’t the ones where every inch is filled. They’re the ones where every object feels like it belongs.

That’s because good taste isn’t something you can buy in one afternoon.

It’s something you slowly build.

One piece of advice I’d happily give any new collector is this: don’t collect for the imaginary guest who might visit your home one day. Collect for yourself. Buy the painting that makes you stop scrolling. Hang it where you think it belongs. If one wall ends up perfectly symmetrical while another becomes beautifully chaotic, that’s not a mistake. That’s personality.

Piece by piece, your home begins to collect memories instead of simply collecting furniture. Guests may compliment the art, but what they’re really noticing is that the space feels lived in. It feels personal. Your collection shouldn’t look like a page torn out of a catalogue. It should look like a visual diary that quietly tells your story without saying a word.

Art has a way of doing that. It softens empty corners, starts conversations and quietly tells people something about you before you’ve even introduced yourself. It says you pay attention. It says you enjoy beauty. It says this isn’t just a place to sleep. It’s a place to live.

So don’t wait until you’ve moved into your dream home or until you’ve convinced yourself you’re finally “rich enough” to become an art collector. Start with one piece that refuses to leave your mind. If your budget allows for a print today, begin there. If it allows for an original painting, even better. The important thing isn’t how much you spend. It’s that the piece makes you feel something every time you walk past it.

Years from now, you probably won’t remember exactly what you paid for your first artwork. You’ll remember where it hung, who complimented it first, and the version of yourself that decided an empty wall deserved a story. That’s the wonderful thing about collecting art. Long after you’ve stopped thinking about the purchase, the artwork quietly becomes part of your life.

- Alex

START YOUR COLLECTION HERE

artdey is an online marketplace for original contemporary African art, sourced directly from emerging artists in Nigeria and Ghana.

Some artists tell stories with words. Others tell them with colour. Bertha Onyekachi decided not to choose between the two.

As both a painter and an actress, her creative life moves between film sets and the quiet solitude of the studio. One day she’s stepping into someone else’s life through a character. The next, she’s standing before a blank canvas, trying to understand her own. The result is a body of work that feels deeply cinematic without ever trying to imitate film. Every painting carries the weight of a story, yet never insists on telling you exactly what that story is.

We caught up with Bertha to talk about storytelling, cinematography, growing up between two creative worlds, and why she thinks her art would taste like zobo.

On who she is:

“I’m a Nigerian painter, actress and filmmaker. I spend a lot of time observing people. I’m interested in the emotions people carry but don’t always talk about. Whether I’m acting or painting, I’m trying to understand people a little better. I’m interested in emotion, memory, family, migration, identity and the things people don’t say. I think that’s what connects everything I do. I just happen to use different mediums to tell those stories.”

On how painting and acting feed each other:

“Acting teaches me to pay attention to body language, silence and emotion. Painting gives me time to sit with those emotions without dialogue or movement. Some expressions or feelings that stay with me after playing a character may eventually find their way into a painting.”

On whether painting feels like an escape from set:

“I don’t really see them as separate because they’re both telling a story that would resonate with anyone who connects with it. Acting lets me experience someone else’s world. Painting helps me process my own thoughts about the world. One is outward, the other is inward, but they’re both conversations about being human. It takes a village to make a film because it’s collaboration driven. But my painting is all me, from thought to execution.”

On composing a canvas like a film scene:

“Yes, actually. I think about where I want your eyes to go first, where the tension sits, and what should remain hidden. It’s very similar to framing a shot. Not everything has to be explained to the viewer immediately. I like leaving room for people to discover things as they spend time with the work. Then again, sometimes you want to create freely without thinking and let the painting decide what it wants to communicate.”

On what beverage her art would be:

“I’d probably say zobo. I was tempted to say a cocktail of many sodas, but zobo feels more appropriate. At first it feels familiar and refreshing, but the more you drink it, the more layers you taste. Sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes there’s ginger, sometimes there’s a little spice. I hope my paintings work like that. They don’t tell you everything at first glance, but the more you sit with them, the more you uncover.”

On cinematography’s influence:

“I wouldn’t say there’s a specific film. I’m more interested in cinematography itself. Certain shots, light or a deep shadow can completely change how you feel about a character. That has influenced how I use contrast and mood in my paintings because I’m always thinking about what a viewer might feel or remember.”

On telling stories in a single frame:

“Film taught me that every detail matters. Sometimes a story isn’t told through dialogue but through a look, an object or an empty space. I try to paint that way too. I want people to feel like they’re walking into the middle of a story, imagining what came before and what comes next. I try to capture a frame that stays with you as a visual reference long after the credits roll.”

On studying at UNIBEN’s Ekenhuan campus:

“Funny enough, I always wanted to study Theatre Arts, but my parents thought it was a loafer’s course. So I studied Fine Art because it seemed like the lesser evil, and at the time I was already drawing and painting. Getting into Ekenhuan campus and seeing that it’s a small community where both worlds coexist made me see things in harmony. While I studied Fine and Applied Arts, I also took Theatre Arts electives like Arts of the Theatre. Stepping into the film industry expanded the way I think about storytelling. It made me less interested in simply painting people and more interested in painting what they’re carrying emotionally.”

On what she hopes viewers take away:

“I hope they pause for a moment. We live in a world where we’re always in a rush, but I want my work to slow people down. I want someone to stand before my painting for longer than they’re meant to and leave the room looking at other people more carefully and with empathy. If a face I paint in my Lagos studio makes a stranger recognise themselves or their emotions, then I’ve won.”

On creative block:

“Sometimes acting helps because it gets me out of my own head and reminds me to breathe. But I’ve also learned not to panic when I’m stuck. Creative block usually means I’ve been trying to force something. So I step away, observe people, watch films, read, or simply live a little. Eventually the work starts speaking again.”

On the atmosphere she hopes her art brings to a home:

“I hope it brings curiosity and quiet conversation. I don’t want someone to walk past it without thinking. I hope it keeps revealing something new every time they look at it. If it makes people stop, ask questions or even remember something about themselves, then I’m happy.”

What stayed with us most after speaking with Bertha wasn’t that she works across painting, acting and filmmaking. It was how naturally those worlds belong together. Whether she’s framing a scene for the screen or composing a canvas in the studio, her focus always returns to the same place: the quiet emotions that shape who we are.

There’s a patience to her work that feels increasingly rare. Rather than asking for immediate attention, her paintings invite you to stay a little longer, notice a little more, and perhaps leave seeing both the artwork and yourself differently.

SHOP BERTHA ONYEKACHI'S COLLECTION

Quick reminder: Our 20% off deal is still running through July 31. Buy any two original artworks and the discount applies automatically at checkout.

20% off when you buy any two original artworks. Now through July 31.

SHOP THE COLLECTION

You know the feeling.

You spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending you were “still deciding.” Every evening, after a cup of ginger tea, you’d reopen the artdey page for one last look. Zoom into the details like you were conducting serious research. Add it to your cart. Hover above the checkout button... then close it again because you were definitely going to think about it some more.

Then another painting appeared. Completely different, yet somehow perfect.

You wanted them both. But that would mean drinking tap water for the next two weeks.

Naturally, you picked one. Adulting is about painful sacrifices, after all. You told yourself the second painting could wait. It would still be there next month... hopefully.

Then the painting arrived.

It looked exactly the way you imagined. You found the perfect spot, stepped back to admire your work, and immediately noticed something off. The painting looked fantastic. The wall looked fantastic. But somehow your brain wandered back to the one you left behind. You started wondering what the two would’ve looked like together.

Worse, you pictured your painting hanging in some stranger’s house. They don’t even love it like you do.

So we thought we’d fix that.

From now until July 31, buy any two original artworks and get 20% off your total order. The discounted price is exactly what you pay. No surprise fees. No calculator gymnastics at checkout.

Maybe you’ve had your eye on two works by the same artist and couldn’t decide which deserved the wall. Maybe you’ve fallen for two completely different styles that somehow make perfect sense together. Or maybe you’ve already chosen your favourite and just need someone to whisper, “Go on... get the other one too.”

We’re very comfortable being that someone.

SHOP TWO, SAVE 20%

The best collections rarely begin with a grand plan. Nobody wakes up and declares, “Today I shall begin my lifelong journey as an art collector.” More often, it starts with two paintings that refuse to leave your thoughts.

So if there’s a pair quietly waiting for you, consider this your sign.

20% off any two original artworks. Ends July 31.

After all, buying one painting is responsible.

Buying two at 20% off? That’s just good mathematics.

START YOUR COLLECTION

— Alex

artdey is an online marketplace for original contemporary African art, sourced directly from emerging artists in Nigeria and Ghana.

I woke up because something sounded... wrong. You know how your brain immediately starts making terrible guesses in the middle of the night? Maybe someone was knocking on the gate. Maybe a pipe had burst. Maybe my neighbour had finally decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time to rearrange furniture. I rolled over, opened one eye, put my foot on the floor... and discovered the floor had become a puddle.

Now, I’d love to tell you I reacted like the lead character in an action film. That I calmly assessed the situation before executing a flawless evacuation plan. The truth is I made a noise that I hope nobody else heard, stumbled into the darkness, and watched as water wandered around my house with the confidence of someone who’d been paying rent for months.

There wasn’t time to think. The flood had already introduced itself to my shoes and was making suspicious eye contact with the extension box. I needed to act quickly. Not because I had a plan, but because panic has an incredible way of disguising itself as urgency. This was no longer my house. This was now a rescue mission.

The laptop was first, obviously. There wasn’t even a debate. That thing contains years of music projects, unfinished articles, half-baked ideas, folders labelled “Final Final” that absolutely are not final, and enough important files to make losing it feel like deleting several versions of myself. I tucked it under my arm with the kind of determination usually reserved for carrying toddlers out of burning buildings, except this toddler happened to run on Windows.

Then came the scarf.

Before you judge me, understand that every person owns one item of clothing that has somehow earned diplomatic immunity. Mine is a scarf. It’s survived road trips, rainy evenings, cold cinemas, late-night walks, and enough questionable fashion decisions to deserve a medal. Was it practical to rescue it before several other possessions? Absolutely not. Was I going to leave it behind? Also absolutely not. Some things simply refuse to be abandoned, regardless of what common sense has to say about the matter.

With the essentials secured, I turned back toward the room and saw them.

Two paintings.

They were hanging there with the calm confidence of passengers who had completely misunderstood the announcement that the ship was sinking. Water was creeping steadily across the floor while they remained exactly where they’d always been, blissfully unaware that gravity and moisture were moments away from forming an alliance against them. I looked at them. They looked at me. Well... they would have, if paintings could look.

The first one was closest to the rising water, so naturally I launched into what can only be described as the least graceful rescue operation in modern history. I half slid, half skated across the room, reached the wall with all the elegance of a newborn giraffe, and lifted the painting above my head like I’d just won a championship trophy. If anyone had walked in at that exact moment, they would’ve assumed I’d mistaken a canvas for the nation’s most valuable treasure. I refuse to apologise. Heroes aren’t always understood in their own time.

The second painting, however, had become a hostage to circumstance. To reach it meant stepping through water while balancing a laptop under one arm, a scarf around my neck, and the first painting like some oddly specific gym exercise. I considered admitting defeat for almost three seconds. Then I remembered that if I’d bought the painting, hung it on my wall, and spent months living with it, I wasn’t about to let it lose an argument with a puddle. So I staged a second rescue that was somehow even less dignified than the first, emerging from the room looking like a man who had robbed an art gallery while severely underprepared.

By the time everything was safely stacked on the highest surface I could find, I finally stopped to catch my breath. The water was still doing what water does, the house looked mildly offended, and I was standing there soaking wet, clutching a laptop, wearing a scarf that absolutely did not need rescuing, and guarding two paintings as though they were survivors of some great historical event. Looking back, I admit the priorities may have seemed... unconventional.

But that’s the funny thing about living with art. Somewhere between the day you hang it on the wall and the hundredth day you absentmindedly walk past it, it stops feeling like something you own. It becomes part of the soundtrack of your everyday life. It watches films with you, listens to conversations it was never invited into, and quietly witnesses ordinary days that don’t seem important until they’re gone. Saving those paintings wasn’t really about saving paint on canvas. It was about refusing to let a small part of my story float away.

So yes, I rescued a laptop. I rescued a scarf that almost certainly would’ve survived without my intervention. And I carried two paintings through a flooded room with all the confidence of a man convinced history would remember his bravery. Whether history agrees is another matter entirely.

If I ever had to do it all over again... I’d probably grab the scarf first.

- Alex.

[ Take it home ]

artdey is an online marketplace for original contemporary African art, sourced directly from emerging artists in Nigeria and Ghana.

BROWSE THE COLLECTION

A few days ago, I was doomscrolling on X and stumbled upon a video about a man discussing the drastic change in homes in modern movies and shows compared to vintage ones. He made a comparison that stuck with me: older homes looked more “lived in” than modern ones, which gave characters a more immersive, human feel. Characters in modern movies live in homes that are sterile, neatly arranged, and curated to an almost spooky degree.

Close your eyes and picture the home you grew up in.

There’s a good chance you aren’t remembering the floor plan or the colour of the walls. Instead, you’re perhaps remembering the things and people that lived within them. A faded family photograph above the television. A wooden stool that somehow outlasted every other piece of furniture. A clock that chimed a little too loudly. Perhaps a painting that hung in the hallway for so many years that you stopped noticing it until one day it was gone.

Our memories of home are rarely built from empty rooms. They’re built from the objects that quietly became part of our everyday lives.

It’s easy to think of art as decoration, something added to a room once everything else has been decided. In reality, it often becomes one of the things that give a space its identity. Spend enough time with a painting, and it stops feeling like an object on a wall. It becomes part of the rhythm of the home itself.

A lifetime ago, I was an assistant to a gallery manager, and right in front of the couch where I would sit was a painting - 'Lost the Map Found Your Portal’ by Edozie Anedu, one of his older pieces from his first exhibition. This piece watched me eat for a dozen months! One day I walked in, and it wasn’t there. It felt like the entire space had changed. No repaint, no renovations... just the absence of a piece that had become the identity of that space.

Think about how often a painting or sculpture appears in old family photographs. It sits in the background while birthdays are celebrated, children grow taller, relatives gather for holidays, and everyday moments unfold without anyone paying much attention to it. Years later, when you look back at those pictures, the painting is still there. It becomes a landmark in your memory, as familiar as the people standing beneath it.

Perhaps that’s why walking into a childhood home after something has been removed can feel so unsettling. The room hasn’t changed very much, yet something feels undeniably different. It’s not because the space is emptier. It’s because a piece of your memory has gone missing.

Artists understand this instinctively.

Many painters fill their work with objects that seem ordinary at first glance. A chair tucked into the corner. A well-used kettle. Books stacked unevenly on a shelf. Curtains left slightly open to let in the afternoon light. These details aren’t there to fill empty space. They make a room believable because they make it lived-in.

The same is true of our own homes.

A sculpture placed beside the front door gradually becomes part of the way guests remember visiting. A painting above the dining table witnesses years of conversations without ever saying a word. Even the smallest objects begin collecting stories simply because they remain present while life happens around them.

Perhaps that’s why we carry certain possessions with us whenever we move. Their value isn’t measured by cost or rarity. They remind us of people, places, and versions of ourselves that we’d rather not forget. They make a new house feel familiar long before it truly becomes a home.

Art has always done more than beautify a room. It quietly absorbs the lives unfolding around it. Long after furniture is replaced and walls are repainted, the artworks we choose often remain the strongest link to the memories we hold onto.

Maybe that’s because the homes we remember were never really made of bricks and mortar.

They were made of stories.

And every story needs something worth remembering.

One piece before you go

[Take it home →]

artdey is an online marketplace for original contemporary African art, sourced directly from emerging artists in Nigeria and Ghana.

BROWSE THE COLLECTION

There’s a recurring experience I sometimes have when encountering new pieces from familiar artists. I’m sure you’ve had it too.

You recognise a painting before reading the artist’s name.

It sounds odd at first, but the more you consume art, the more often it happens. You stop searching for the signature in the corner because something else has already given the artist away. It might be the colours, the brushwork, the composition, or simply a feeling that’s impossible to explain. Somehow, you already know whose work you’re looking at.

That is what separates a good artist from a memorable one.

Every artist begins by learning the same fundamentals. Anatomy, perspective, colour theory, composition, and the techniques that allow them to paint convincingly. For a while, many artists even resemble the people who inspired them. That’s a natural part of the process. The challenge isn’t learning how to paint. The challenge is learning how to paint like yourself.

Picasso is probably the most universal example. Show some people his Cubist portraits and they’ll look at you and say, “I could paint that.” Yet somehow, no one had thought to paint that way until he did. Love it or hate it, his work became so distinctive that his style has been copied for over a century without ever truly being duplicated.

That’s the funny thing about originality. The simplest ideas often seem obvious only after someone else has had them.

My personal favourites are Kenneth Rocafort and Loish van Baarle, artists who work primarily in digital. They have elevated their own shape and colour language to such mastery that they could paint with anything, and you’d still know it’s their work.

An artist’s style isn’t built overnight. It grows through repetition. The artist finds themselves returning to the same subjects, making the same creative decisions, solving visual problems in ways that feel natural to them. Over time, those choices become instinctive. Eventually, they stop looking like choices altogether.

They start looking like a signature.

Spend enough time exploring the artists on artdey and you’ll begin to notice these visual signatures for yourself.

Take Olamilekan Okunade, who speaks through atmosphere. His pixelated paintings invite you to linger, revealing quiet narratives through carefully observed figures, layered environments, and subtle details that reward patience. Nothing feels accidental. Every object, every gesture, every relationship between figures contributes to a larger story. The viewer feels less like an observer and more like someone stepping into a lived experience.

Olamilekan has found a visual language that belongs to him alone. That’s why his paintings feel familiar even when you’ve never seen a particular piece before. You’re not recognising the artwork. You’re recognising the artist.

Perhaps that’s what we’re really collecting when we buy art.

We tell ourselves we’re buying a beautiful painting, but often we’re returning to an artist because of the way they see, think, and communicate. Every new work becomes another chapter in a conversation we’ve already begun.

The next time you recognise an artist before reading the signature, take a moment to appreciate what you’re experiencing. You’re witnessing years of experimentation, failure, persistence, and growth distilled into something so personal it can be identified at a glance.

That’s when an artist stops having a style.

They begin to have a language.

SHOP OLAMILEKAN OKUNADE'S WORK

If you’ve spent time browsing artdey’s collection, you’ve probably come across the work of Daniel Ashola’sa.

Known for his textured surfaces, muted palettes, and quiet explorations of the human experience, Daniel has built a body of work that invites viewers to slow down and reflect. His paintings exist somewhere between realism and abstraction, placing familiar figures within distorted environments that mirror the complexities of everyday life.

Lately, his presence on the platform has been quieter than usual. The reason is a happy one.

Daniel is getting married!

As he prepares for this new season, he finds himself less focused on the next exhibition and more focused on building a home, a family, and a life beyond the studio walls. Art remains central to who he is, but for the first time in a long while, it must learn to share space with something else.

We recently caught up with him to talk about his journey, his influences, and what comes next.

On his earliest memories of art:

“As a child, I loved comics. My earliest drawings were characters from Supa Strikas. I also grew up in a Deeper Life household, and one of my treasures was a Bible with maps at the back. During sermons, I would spend my time drawing in it. I called it my illustration Bible.”

On choosing art over business:

“When I finished secondary school as a commerce student, my plan was to study Business Administration or Banking. That changed because of encouragement from my brother and my own growing awareness of my ability. I enrolled in a one-year art training program and met Dr. Kunle Adeyemi. His studio became my second home. A few of us were affectionately known as the Studio Rats. Seeing artists around me achieve incredible things, including one who received a scholarship to study in Paris, gave me confidence I had chosen the right path.”

On texture and distortion:

“One thing I always emphasize is texture. I love working with textured surfaces and creating a sense of distortion within my paintings. You’ll often find realistic figures set against distorted backgrounds. For me, that’s a metaphor for life itself. We live in social and economic realities that feel increasingly unstable, yet we still have to show up every day, be presentable, and keep moving forward.”

On muted colours:

“I work primarily with earthy, muted colours because I believe they reflect the reality of the world we live in today. Society is not smiling right now, and I want my work to acknowledge that while still encouraging reflection.”

On his most personal painting:

“There is a painting titled Ngukam the Jos Boy that remains very important to me. I don’t usually paint male figures, but this story stayed with me. I met the young man during my service year in the East. He was originally from Jos and spoke openly about the stereotypes and tribalism he experienced. People constantly referred to him as ‘Aboki’ even though they could easily learn he wasn’t Hausa. That conversation stayed with me long after it ended. The painting became my response.”

On what he hopes viewers take away:

“I love it when viewers arrive at their own interpretation. I once created a series called Book of Remembrance, and the idea was simple: people should be able to engage with the work on a personal level. I want the painting to become part of them. A reflection of themselves.”

On balancing art and life:

“Right now, I’m entering a new chapter because I’m getting married soon. Art can be a jealous lover, so one of the things I’m thinking about most is how to balance my practice with raising a family and becoming the kind of husband and father I want to be. Finding that balance is the next part of my journey.”

One of the things we enjoy most at artdey is speaking with artists during quieter transitions. Not just when a new collection launches, but during the moments that shape the people behind the work.

Daniel reminds us that art does not exist in isolation. It grows alongside careers, friendships, families, and personal experiences. The paintings we admire are often reflections of lives being lived in real time.

We wish him all the best in this new chapter.

SHOP DANIEL ASHOLA'SA'S WORK

-Alex

There is a certain kind of painting that feels alive long after you’ve looked away.

Njideka Akunyili Crosby has built a career creating exactly that kind of work. Her paintings are layered with memories, relationships, histories, and quiet moments that reveal themselves gradually. What appears simple from a distance becomes increasingly complex the closer you move toward it

Born in Nigeria and later relocating to the United States, Akunyili Crosby’s work often explores the experience of existing between worlds. Nigerian imagery sits beside Western influences. Family photographs merge with painted scenes. Personal memories become part of larger conversations about identity, migration, belonging, and home.

What makes her work so compelling is the way it mirrors memory itself. Memories rarely arrive as complete stories. They come in fragments. A familiar pattern. A photograph tucked into a corner. A room you have not visited in years. A face that reminds you of another time. Her paintings embrace that feeling, building scenes that reward curiosity and patience

This approach recently found its way into one of the most talked about paintings of the year, The Obamas: Springing Forth. Rather than focusing solely on the two figures at its center, Akunyili Crosby filled the work with photographs, personal references, family history, and symbols connected to the lives that shaped them. The result feels less like a portrait and more like a visual archive, one that asks viewers to spend time uncovering the stories hidden beneath the surface

That commitment to storytelling through detail is one of the reasons her work resonates with so many people. It is also why it reminds us of artdey artist, Juachi.

Like Akunyili Crosby, Juachi is a Nigerian woman whose work rewards patience. Like her, she came to art through another discipline — architecture — bringing a structural approach to image-making. And like her, she builds layered compositions that ask you to look longer than you planned to.

Juachi’s practice explores language, meaning, and cognition through a visual system that translates how the mind processes the world. Her paintings bring together the mundane, the dreamlike, and the analytical, constructing scenes that feel like snapshots of thought itself.

Both artists understand that depth is not created through complexity alone. It comes from intention. It comes from building worlds that feel lived in. It comes from trusting viewers to discover meaning for themselves.

At artdey, that is the kind of work we are always drawn to. Work that reveals itself over time. Work that rewards a second look. Work that reminds us that the most memorable stories are rarely the loudest ones.

Sometimes they are simply waiting in the background, asking us to slow down long enough to notice them.

SHOP JUACHI'S WORK

- Alex

Lagos has never been an easy city to understand. I should know, I’ve spent the past three years trying to do just that.

When you’re looking at the city as a newcomer — a JJC, as Lagosians call it, it can look like a place permanently trapped in traffic., it can look like a place permanently trapped in traffic. A city of impatient horns, crowded roads, rude people, strange smells, and yellow buses weaving through impossible gaps at sometimes inhuman speeds. Spend enough time here, though, and you begin to realise that the chaos is not separate from the city. It is the city. And you just might fall in love with the organised chaos.

There are very few symbols that capture Lagos’s reality better than the Danfo. With its bright yellow body and unmistakable twin black stripes running along its sides, the Danfo has evolved into more than a mode of transportation. It is a moving portrait of Lagos itself; loud, resilient, unpredictable, and somehow always finding a way forward.

As a child, I was deathly terrified of Lagos. Not because of stories I had heard, but because I had been there and seen the chaos for myself. The Danfo has claimed not only my arm temporarily (I broke it at eight years old trying to board one), but also my father’s left knee permanently. I would always ask anyone who would listen: “Where are they rushing to?!”

Now I am one of those Lagos people who always seem to be in a hurry. And I understand the annoyance when you find someone who you think is too “relaxed.” Lagos is a place of great comfort, but relaxation and contentment have no place in this city.

The paintings in this collection lean into that spirit. Their rough textures and weathered surfaces feel familiar to anyone who has spent time here. There is warmth in the colours and movement in the compositions, but there is also an honesty that refuses to smooth over the harder edges of Lagos life.

Don’t be stupid.

Don’t be slow.

Don’t allow yourself to be taken for a fool in Lagos.

Igoni Barrett references the famous Three Wise Men statues in Blackass, and whether or not those words were ever officially theirs, they feel like advice the city itself might give.

Lagos rewards ambition, but it also demands awareness. It is a city that can exhaust you in the morning and inspire you by evening. A city where opportunity and frustration often share the same street.

There is another quote — one with no exact known origin — that many Lagosians know well:

“Anyone who says there’s no money in Lagos is a fool, but Lagos money lives only in Lagos.”

As my years in this city stretch on, I fear this quote isn’t just a cliché Lagos saying. It is the truth hidden in contradiction. Lagos is a city built on the pursuit of dreams and aspirations. Entrepreneurs, artists, traders, musicians, and dreamers arrive every day convinced that something is waiting for them just beyond the next bus stop, the next meeting, the next opportunity.

Sometimes they find it. Sometimes they do not. Yet the city keeps moving.

That is what makes these paintings compelling. They are not simply depictions of buses and roads. They are portraits of a mindset. They capture the determination, humour, grit, and restless energy that have made Lagos one of the most influential cities on the continent.

Behind every yellow bus is a story. Behind every traffic jam is someone chasing something. Behind every rough brushstroke is a reminder that beauty does not always emerge from comfort. Sometimes it emerges from motion. Sometimes it emerges from survival.

And nowhere understands that better than Lagos.

Yet even Lagos exhales. At the edge of the city, past the yellow buses and the shouting conductors, there is water. Fishermen pulling nets in the early light. No horns. No rush. Just the quiet work of people who have always known that Lagos is more than one thing.

This is also Lagos. A city that never sleeps, but constantly dreams.

- Alex Edo

Click here to explore the city!

I’ve always found it interesting how nature hides some of its most dangerous things behind beauty. Bright frogs. Colorful plants. Perfect skies before storms. There’s something unsettling about things that look warm while carrying something heavier underneath.

A lot of the artists on Artdey work in that exact emotional space.

Some of the boldest paintings on the platform are also the moodiest. Bright reds sit beside loneliness. Soft yellows carrying tension. Vivid colors wrapped around subjects that feel uncertain, isolated, or emotionally distant. The work pulls you in gently before you realize there’s something deeper sitting underneath it

It reminds me a little of Homelander in the latest season finale of The Boys. Beneath all the polished colors, confidence, and forced charm was somebody deeply afraid. Not because the artworks themselves are evil, obviously, but because bright surfaces often hide complicated emotions underneath them.

That contrast is part of what makes art feel human.

I think that’s also why I’ve always been drawn to abstract work built around lines and color. Maybe my brain just likes being allowed to feel something without immediately being told exactly what I’m supposed to see. Abstracts leave room for emotion to arrive naturally. You notice patterns first, then tension, then memory, then suddenly something personal appears inside the work that wasn’t there five minutes earlier.

The best artists understand this balance well. They know beauty becomes more interesting when there’s uncertainty inside it. When warmth and discomfort exist together. When color isn’t just decoration but emotion itself.

And honestly, I think that’s part of what makes contemporary African art so exciting right now. So many artists are learning how to make softness feel complex instead of simple.

Which feels very true to life.

Quick reminder: Our Buy One, Get One Free offer on Daminu Wasiu’s miniature portraits is still running through June 7th. Add two to your cart, and the discount applies automatically. Every piece arrives framed, signed, and ready to hang.

If you missed the last newsletter, now you know.

Shop Daminus Miniatures Here

Shop The Beautiful Artworks Here

— Alex Edo

Hi, it’s Alex again.

artdey still hasn’t changed the password, and at this point, I’m starting to suspect they actually want me here.

While I’ve still got access, I wanted to share something new: Daminu Wasiu’s latest abstract miniature portraits just landed on artdey, and they’re the kind of works that ask you to slow down.

Daminu builds these miniature portraits with bold outlines, flat color, and patterns that feel almost rhythmic. One piece gives you a mask-like face, boxed in by spirals and grids. Another pushes lines of color against a restless geometric background. The figures sit still while everything around them hums with motion. That tension between calm faces and busy surfaces is what keeps you looking.

I‘ve always liked abstraction — especially when it doesn’t tell you what to feel. It sets up a pattern, lets tension sit next to softness, and leaves room for your mind to wander in. Five minutes later, you’re not seeing the same thing you saw at the start. The work shifts as you spend time with it.

Daminu’s miniatures do exactly that. Quiet without being empty. Restrained without being flat. It’s what makes contemporary African art so exciting right now: artists using softness to hold complicated feelings instead of flattening them out.

It’s been a full week — Memorial Day, Eid, Children’s Day, salary alerts finally hitting. To mark the moment, we’re running a Buy One, Get One Free sale on all of Daminu Wasiu’s miniature pieces.

Starting today, May 29th, through June 7th.

Just add two miniatures to your cart — the discount applies automatically at checkout. Every piece is original, hand-signed by Daminu, and arrives already framed and ready to hang.

If you’ve had your eye on his work, now’s the time. If you’re just meeting it, start here.

SHOP DAMINU'S MINATURES

Thanks for reading, and for supporting artists who make work you want to linger with.

— Alex.

Hi, I’m Alex Edo. Artdey absentmindedly handed me the password to the socials and newsletter, so naturally I’m going to use it to talk about colors, art and my emotional state at the same time.

Last night, I went to see Call of My Life by Dammy Twitch at the Lekki IMAX with a personal budget that was already under emotional pressure before the movie even started.

The cinema was full in the way only Lagos cinemas can be, couples sharing popcorn, friend groups shouting at the screen, strangers reacting together like everyone had arrived with the same emotional baggage. I sat there with the cheapest popcorn I could buy and a drink that still somehow felt overpriced, trying not to calculate how much money had already left my pocket before the movie even started. Then the lights dimmed…

Written by Uzoamaka Power (who also acted as Sol in the movie) and produced by Blessing Uzzi for Bluhouse Studios, Call of My Life follows Soluchi, a bright and emotionally open customer service call center agent trying to navigate love and adulthood without losing herself in the process. She finds herself caught between Eli, a Ghanaian news anchor settling into Nigeria, and Kalu, her wealthy ex, who once left her for being “too childish” before trying to win her back.

Trailer

What stuck with me most about the film wasn’t just the romance. It was the way it treated Lagos like art. The colors throughout the movie were vivid and warm in a way that made familiar places feel almost newly discovered. Sol’s walks through Lekki and Ikoyi carried a softness that made the city feel lighter than it usually does in real life. The scenes with Kalu in the Yaba textile market were full of texture and movement, while the beach scenes felt intimate without trying too hard. Even the sadness at the train station near the end somehow looked beautiful in that quiet kind of way heartbreak sometimes does. The film is warm, colorful, and deeply alive.

The soundtrack carries the story beautifully, the dialogue flows naturally, and the chemistry between the actors makes every emotional moment land gently instead of forcefully. Justin UG delivered the most compelling supporting performance for me; his character was funny, grounded, and memorable without trying too hard. Broda Shaggi also played his role effortlessly, bringing humor that never distracted from the heart of the story. Each aspect of the movie serves to elevate the story, basically painting a picture but on a much larger scale. I must admit, the character that stayed with me most was Sol herself.

There was something painfully familiar about watching someone fight to remain bright in a world constantly asking her to become harder. Her softness is treated like immaturity by some of the people around her. Still, the film quietly asks an important question: what if choosing to stay hopeful, expressive, and emotionally open is its own kind of strength?

I think that’s where the movie found me personally.

Living in Lagos can sometimes feel like a slow negotiation with your own tenderness. Everything here wants urgency from you. Toughness. Survival. Even while watching the movie, I found myself counting expenses in my head between scenes. By the climax, the couple sitting beside me had started their own quiet romance while I sat there realizing how rare softness can feel in everyday life, and maybe that’s why films like this matter.

Not because they help us escape reality completely, but because they remind us that there are still people trying to protect the gentler parts of themselves inside it. The movie also gives us an opportunity to rethink what beauty means in a city that we have learned to overlook its perks because we've known nothing else. To rethink what art means in a world where art becomes more commercialized.

If you’ve been needing something warm, visually beautiful, funny, and emotionally honest, go see Call of My Life. Check out their showtimes this week.

Instagram

This also happens to be my first piece as the new voice behind artdey’s socials and newsletter, so it feels fitting to begin with art, emotion, and a room full of strangers trying to hold onto softness together.

— Alex Edo

P.S. Happy Clarissa Day if you are in Cannes at the moment!

So, has anyone been watching The ’Burbs on Peacock?

If you have, you already know — Keke Palmer is hilarious, the writing is sharp, and there’s something deeply relatable about watching a young couple leave the city, move to the suburbs, and immediately realise the cul-de-sac has secrets.

But here’s the thing we can’t stop smiling about: look at the walls.

That’s us.

Multiple pieces from artdey were licensed for the show, and eagle-eyed viewers have already spotted two of them in the pilot.

If you’ve been with us for a while, you know this isn’t new. We’ve been licensing pieces to film, TV, and commercial productions for years now. But every time we see our artists’ work on screen, it still hits the same way. The ’Burbs is just the latest — and honestly, one of the most fun.

Whether it’s a first apartment, a forever home, or a fictional suburb with a creepy Victorian across the street, art makes a space feel like it belongs to someone. That’s always been the point for us.

WORKING ON A PRODUCTION?

If you’re a set designer, interior designer, art director, or anyone who puts things on walls for a living, we’d love to talk. We’ve been doing this for years, and the collection keeps growing.

Contact us at hello@artdey.com

Oh, and if you’re not licensing art for a TV show but you are looking for something to put on your own walls — everything you see on the show (and a whole lot more) is available at artdey.com.

Shop The Collection

70% of every purchase goes directly to the artist. No middlemen, no mystery.

Now go watch the show. And pay attention to the walls.

Emmanuel Maurice—known to the art world as Falex—is a self-taught multidimensional artist whose practice spans visual art, music, and fashion. Raised in a deeply religious household as the third of five children, Falex's creative instincts emerged in early childhood when his older brother first placed a pencil in his hand and taught him to draw. What began as a gift passed between siblings has since grown into a lifelong calling that has taken Falex from Lagos to stages and galleries across the globe. In this candid conversation, Falex opens up about the family roots of his creativity, the grief that sharpened his purpose, and why he believes greatness is often built in nothingness.

artdey: Can you share your journey into the world of art?

Falex: There’s never been a point I felt like I just got in, since I am art myself. My existence is art. From my earliest days, my brother held my hand and showed me how to draw. I started running with it, and at some point it replaced studies and the “serious” parts of learning. My parents were not having it—they saw art as a distraction rather than an attraction. My dad kept trashing my art stuff, but my mom somehow let it flourish.

Art made me special in school. I mastered calligraphy and could write like anybody. I had girls bringing me their notes to copy because my handwriting was that good. By secondary school, I was one of the known artists, and that started making my name ring out. I was the kid who didn’t do the conformist thing. Everyone else followed the formula; I didn’t.

I’m a multidimensional artist—art, music, and fashion. Art inspires my music, and music inspires my fashion. Somehow, these things all feed into each other. And I’ll say this: my parents were proper clergy, very traditional, and I was the hard one to put together. But it could only have taken those two people to raise me right, and they did a great job. Rest in peace to them always.

artdey: You mentioned being self-taught. How did that shape your path?

Falex: I’ve never studied art professionally. When I was about to get into school, I couldn’t afford to study art formally, so I just had to push with it on my own. I made myself a promise: as long as my peers were going to be in school getting great, even if I couldn’t make it to their level through formal education, nobody would have anything to say when they came out. Art made my life difficult at times, but it taught me to thrive with nothing. That led me to realise that greatness is often built in nothingness. That’s not just a saying for me—that has been my journey.

artdey: How do you balance conveying a strong message through your art while ensuring it resonates aesthetically with your audience?

Falex: I’m confident in my work, so I’m not going to try to control how people feel. I follow the thought, the leading, the little whispers. The right audience follows. I don’t lead the art, I’m just the medium through which it’s created. The art itself is invisible; I just bring it to life.

As an artist, I have to live in continuous chaos. Everybody is never going to agree. When it comes to commissioned pieces, I let my clients lead—I’m serving them. But the clients who get the best out of me are the ones who brief me and then release me. They tell me what’s in their head, but then trust me to run with it. Someone once told me, “You don’t know when to stop.” That’s because I exceed expectations—that’s just how I’m wired.

artdey: Where do you see your art going in the future, and what do you hope to achieve?

Falex: I’m not about being the best, because I’m not the best at what I do. But I know I’m going to be the greatest Black artist that ever walked the earth. I say that with my whole chest.

I’m already in homes and countries I don’t even know about. I did one thousand pieces with a violin in nine hundred days during one of the most difficult periods of my life—I lost both parents within five years, relocated, and went through it all. That project was born from trying to find my soul. I was just walking into places I didn’t know, using a mirror to capture the beauty of whatever was present. Restaurants, streets, and cities in Canada. I was everywhere.

My biggest aim is posterity. I want my name to open doors for other people when I’m gone. I’ve found that scars are prices we pay to start a life, and I don’t want the people coming after me to face the same struggles. I want to make a way.

artdey: Tell us about your biggest influences and how they inspire your work.

Falex: My brother isn’t just an inspiration—he’s the essence of my story. He’s the genesis of this whole thing. After my mom’s funeral in 2023, we were at the hospital with my sister. We were sitting outside, and I looked over at my brother, and he was trying to draw a flower. A flower—that’s the most basic thing. He couldn’t do it. He hadn’t drawn in a very long time. It broke my heart, because this was the person who held my hand and showed me the warmth of this thing. And in that moment, I realised: he passed the torch. He was born to hand it over, and I’ve been running with it ever since. Inspiration comes and goes, takes different forms and faces. But my brother? He is the foundation.

And then my dad—he had the most amazing handwriting, and that gave me the drive to master calligraphy in school. My elder sister was good with pastels. Even my aunt, who was deeply religious, and my uncle, who would buy cardboard and write beautiful things—it was all around me. Art was a family language, even if they didn’t always know they were speaking it.

artdey: Can you tell us about the piece connected to CMS Road—the £32,000 work?

Falex: That piece is the closest sentiment I have to my grandmother and my mother. There’s a heart in that work I would do anything to protect.

The story starts with a competition tied to the Royal House—a £32,000 prize with a £2,000 entry fee. I told my mom I was entering. Now, my mom was the biggest, most priceless supporter I’ve ever known. She asked me for time, and then she did something extraordinary. She took her mother’s wrapper—Ankara fabric, the only one she had left of her own mom, and she prayed over it for three nights. Then she told me to take it to the church altar and leave it there for another three nights, so she could release it for my art. That wrapper became my canvas.

I reinforced the Ankara with concrete—made the concrete thin like tea, spilled it on the floor, laid the fabric over it, let it dry, flipped it, then added another layer. All while making sure I never lost the detail of the Ankara pattern itself. Then I taped the fabric square, scraped it, and started painting on top of it. If you look at the borders of the piece, you can see the Ankara showing through, but most people don’t even realise it’s fabric. They think I drew the border design.

I was fasting through the whole process. I wouldn’t eat until evening, then I’d pray through the night because there was no time. I had to compress a week’s worth of spiritual dedication into three days. When it was finished, I took it to a studio, shot a digital photo, and sent it to London for the competition.

Here’s the twist: in the anxiety of trying to meet the deadline, my sister and I uploaded the entry and tagged it wrong—”Vibes Africana” instead of the correct competition tag. It was disqualified on a technicality. But the work was so strong that they withheld the soft copy with my consent. They couldn’t let it go, even though it didn’t qualify. The art had nothing to do with a competition anymore—it had surpassed it.

When I told my mom, she wasn’t angry the way I expected. She said, “The art was supposed to stay with you until you are bigger, because its worth is actually bigger than that prize. If this finds you later, it will make a magical thing.” She told me not to cry about it. We really needed the money at the time, but my mom said, “Nothing is bigger than you. Just live with this.”

Every morning after that, my mom would come and touch that painting. Every single morning. When I relocated, I rolled it up and travelled with it on a bus because I couldn’t afford a flight. I brought my mom to live with me for about a year and a half—I think that’s the only real compensation I ever got to give her before she passed.

At the depth of being broke after her death, someone offered to buy the piece. I walked away. I sat with the painting, wept my soul out, and told myself: I would kill the value of it if I sold it. I would kill my mom’s effort. That competition was worth £32,000—I wouldn’t trade the painting for anything less. I’d rather keep it. My mom read the Bible cover to cover twice—once for herself and once for me. That’s how bonded we were. That piece should be worth a million dollars for what she poured into it.

Don’t miss the chance to own a piece of his extraordinary journey.

Shop Falex's Collection

Benedict Bridgerton may paint the masterpieces, but even he knows — a painting is only as good as how it’s displayed. Here’s the one rule the Ton swears by.

Your art should be two-thirds the width of the furniture below it.

That’s it. The secret every Mayfair drawing room has been hiding.

Size It With Your Eyes

No measuring tape? Channel your inner Benedict and eyeball it:

Small accent piece (30cm / 12in / 1ft)

About the size of a book. Perfect for a gallery wall or intimate corner — like one of Benedict’s sketches.

Medium statement (60cm / 24in / 2ft)

The width of your shoulders. Ideal above a console or side table — think Eloise’s writing desk.

Large focal point (90-120cm / 36-48in / 3-4ft)

Stretch your arms wide. That’s your sofa-sized art — commanding attention like Anthony entering a room.

Grand statement (150cm+ / 60in+ / 5ft+)

The Duke of Hastings making an entrance. Impossible to ignore. Perfect for a feature wall.

When in doubt, go bigger. Small art on a big wall is the decorating equivalent of arriving at Lady Danbury’s ball underdressed.

Find your perfect piece at artdey

Every purchase supports African artists directly — 70% goes straight to the creator.

I’ve been quietly obsessed with something lately: miniature framed paintings.

Not prints. Original art. Palm-sized pieces that cost as much as a pair of sneakers but somehow make every corner of a room feel more intentional.

I stumbled across the work of Daminu Wasiu—an emerging artist whose style sits somewhere between cubist portraits and African pattern work. Bold geometric faces. Intricate maze-like backgrounds. Some are in saturated color, others in striking black and white.

The best part? They come already framed and run under $200.

There’s something about small art that feels more personal than a big statement piece. You can tuck one on a bookshelf, prop it on your desk, or lean it against a stack of books on your nightstand. It doesn’t demand a whole wall—it just quietly elevates whatever space it’s in.

And with Valentine’s Day coming up? Forget the predictable stuff. A tiny original painting says “I actually thought about this” in a way flowers never could.

Shop Daminu Wasiu Here

The world is coming apart at the seams. Wars, abductions, algorithms, outrage, deadlines, doomscrolling, existential dread served fresh daily with your morning coffee. It’s enough to make you want to optimise your productivity, set seventeen new goals, and hustle your way to salvation.

But here’s a radical thought: What if the revolution starts with a walk? With stopping to actually see that painting you’ve walked past a hundred times? With laughing so hard your stomach hurts? With reading a poem that makes no logical sense but somehow makes perfect sense?

The world tells us productivity is virtue. But art? Poetry? The humanities? Those impractical, unmarketable, delightfully useless pursuits? They’re telling us something different: that beauty is resistance. That pausing to appreciate a brushstroke or a well-turned phrase or the way afternoon light hits a wall—that’s not escaping reality. That is reality.

So yes, set your goals. Chase your ambitions. Build your empire. But also: breathe. Walk without your phone. Stand in front of a piece of art until something shifts inside you. Laugh at something absurd. Read a poem that doesn’t immediately “add value.” These aren’t distractions from what matters. These are what matters.

Because when the world feels like it’s unraveling, art reminds us we’ve been here before. Every generation thinks theirs is the one watching it all fall apart. But somehow, through every collapse and crisis, humans kept painting. Kept writing. Kept creating beauty for no reason other than that we could.

That’s not denial. That’s defiance.

So here’s to 2026: May you hustle less and notice more. May you collect moments as intentionally as you collect art. May you remember that in a world obsessed with productivity, choosing beauty is the most productive thing you can do.

With hope and a little rebellion,

Chioma