Dopeness: Iyaba
by Vonetta Booker-Brown

Iyaba Ibo Mandingo's a 21st century griot with a story to tell. Acrylic and canvas are his channels.

A former Southern Connecticut State University art history student, the 30-year-old husband and father was influenced by artists such as Jacob Lawrence and Romare Bearden. Six-foot plus, dreadlocked and mahogany-skinned, Iyaba’s like a 21^st century griot of sorts—into telling the stories of the black experience from the vivid colors of his native Antigua to the anguish of a black mother crying over a son lost to bullets and bullshit. Nope, no bowls of fruit or flaxen-haired interpretations of “what beauty is” will you find here. 

Not that people don’t constantly step to him and ask him about his “non-traditional” art, though. “The very first art class I took, I had a white kid ask me why I only painted black people,” says Iyaba.  “There’s like, one famous painting—I think it’s Monet’s house servant, a mulatto—and that’s the only painting [of a black person] from the Renaissance that’s survived and gets any sort of acknowledgement. In 500 years, we’re going to be studied, dissected, critiqued—just the way we critique history now. And it’s very important that there are black artists who paint black people.” 

Iyaba’s also deeply involved in southern Connecticut’s burgeoning art/poetry scene, with several shows of his latest work happening this month in Stamford and New Haven. And according to him, the last thing people should do is sleep on ol’ CT. “Connecticut just put $6 million towards the arts—that’s more than New York, L.A., Chicago, and I think we should use that. We have the money here to do the big shows, exhibits, poetry readings. It’s just us making Stamford aware that we’re here.”

Some of Iyaba's works: 

“Untitled”: "

One of the things I really love is making love--that’s one of the greatest gifts that God has given us. When you find somebody you really connect with…I don’t think there’s anywhere higher you can go spiritually. When painting this, I said, “I’ll just use that, and bring that from inside of me.” That’s why I have the bodies really meshed—it’s saying a lot of things. Like, have you ever had a fight with your mate, and the next thing y’all know, you’re making this kind of love that’s like, whoa! I think that kind of emotion is what we were able to tap into during slavery. You can imagine a brother just getting completely dehumanized and whipped…the only way that brother could get up the next morning is if he went home and his woman made love to him and gave him back his manhood. I think that’s the secret ingredient to why we’re still on the planet. Even when we were getting killed, we never stopped making love. And that’s what I want this to say. I’m really conscious of the intertwined bodies; I want you to look at them and not be able to see where he starts and she begins, or vice versa. I want you to see them, us."

“Get Your Mangoes, Get Your Guinips”:

"In this painting, I wanted to remember the brightness of the West Indies. So I used a lot of primary colors, and I’m using a lot of the technical color combinations. I remember a lot of people telling me that my art is color—that’s my power, my strength. So I’m going, like, completely into it now, studying the different relationships of color. I’m using all of those relationships in this painting. Things that make the eye hold without the person even realizing that it’s doing that to them. The stretched-out bodies—this just feels a lot freer than the things I learned in school, with European artists like Picasso, Michelangelo, etc. It’s more freeing because I can do whatever with the hands, shoulders and neck."

“Ancestral Mask” (Self-Portrait):

"I think the thing that made it happen was thinking about Black History Month Kwanzaa, talking about Africa and the importance of tradition, masks and ancestral worship--all of those things that are important to us as Africans. [During a dream] I was like, ‘If we were in Africa and I were the head of the family, then the time would come when a mask would be made of me so that 4, 5 or 6 generations away could still see the mask of my face.’ And in dreaming, I could see the mask on the wall. And that’s what I’m doing now—I’m trying to pull the mask from where I saw it on the wall and put it here. My wife probably thinks I’m nuts, ‘cause I’ll just pop up out of the bed and go put something down so I don’t forget it—it’ll be like 3 or 4 in the morning. But if I don’t do that, the image would be much, much duller—this picture was done in about two sittings.  It’s for my [descendants] 10 generations from now to look at—and see me."

To check out more of Iyaba's work, visit him online.  He also currently hosts open mic poetry every Wednesday night at Next Door Cafe (1990 West Main St., Stamford, CT. 203-316-8101)