Kojo Marfo in his studio in Streatham / Matt Writtle
This latest show is an attempt to appeal to our humanity, something that tragedy has taught him is all-too important.
Kojo Marfo's Streatham studio is like the artist's studio of your dreams. Tiny, at the very top of a slightly crumbling terrace overlooking the Common, and absolutely rammed to the gills with the Ghanaian artist's paintings and materials. I'm surprised anyone can get in the door; I struggled, but now I'm gingerly ensconced in a small, paint-splattered armchair opposite where Marfo sits, hat on head (he is never seen without one), in front of one of his huge canvases.
And what a canvas it is, as yet unstretched, tacked onto the wall almost from floor to ceiling. Two female figures, one recognisably a black woman, the other with the almost spectral face of an Akan fertility doll (a common object where he is from, in the mountainous region of Kwahu, and a signature in Marfo's work) stand taller than the artist himself. One holds a baby, whose head resembles a tribal mask; the other cradles a cockerel; in front of her stands a dog. The colours are popping, the context ambiguous. These two have a proud, calm presence, looking directly at you as if patiently waiting for you to state your business and go away, so they can get on with whatever they were doing.
