OZIOMA ONUZULIKE: SCULPTING MEMORY THROUGH CLAY

 

Yes, I grew up in Inyi before moving to the city, so I encountered pottery very early in life. In my mother’s and grandmother’s homes, clay vessels were part of everyday existence. My grandmother stored water in large clay pots placed beneath the eaves of her kitchen, and there were beautifully decorated bowls used for preparing local cassava dishes. Those objects were not treated as ordinary utensils. They carried dignity and beauty. People displayed them proudly, almost ceremonially. Looking back, I realize those early experiences shaped my understanding of form, texture, and material sensitivity.

 

Later, during my undergraduate studies at Nsukka, I returned to Inyi to study its pottery traditions more deeply. I spent time with one of the master potters there and observed how she prepared clay bodies using grog—crushed fragments of broken pots mixed back into fresh clay to strengthen it during firing. I also learned why pots were preheated in kitchen fires before final firing.

 

What fascinated me most was the decoration process. She used a simple handmade wooden tool, called “nde”, to create lyrical lines, in forms of ridges, onto the surfaces of the vessels. The process of using the “nde” tool resembled writing. That experience taught me that sophisticated artistic expression does not depend on expensive technology. One can create powerful art using what already exists within one’s environment.

 

I also became deeply aware of the expressive possibilities of natural firing. Without industrial glazes, those pots still possessed remarkable beauty—variations of brown, black, smoky textures, and subtle tonal transitions created by fire itself. That sensitivity stayed with me. Even today, my studio practice continues to explore how firing processes generate color, texture, and unpredictable visual outcomes.

 

Absolutely. My mother influenced me enormously. She swept our compound with a local broom in such a graceful way that the ground became patterned with rhythmic marks. It taught me that art exists in gestures, not only in objects. Even my father peeling oranges became a visual lesson. He peeled them in a continuous spiral, creating elegant linear movements around the fruit. These seemingly ordinary domestic actions formed my earliest visual education.

 

Only later did I become conscious of how deeply these experiences shaped my aesthetic thinking.

 

 

The Nsukka School shaped me profoundly—technically, conceptually, and politically.

 

When I encountered artists like Obiora Udechukwu and later El Anatsui, I saw artists using indigenous visual languages while engaging modern ideas. That philosophy is known as “Natural Synthesis”, developped by Uche Okeke and members of the Zaria Art Society earlier in the late 1950’s: drawing from local traditions while remaining open to global influences. Uche Okeke was to teach at Nsukka after the Nigerian Civil War in 1970.

 

I was especially influenced by artists experimenting with surface marking using power tools. El Anatsui used angle grinders on wood and sculptural surfaces, and younger artists, such as Chijioke Onuora, adapted those methods not only in wood sculpture but also in painting supports. I began translating those ideas into ceramics, carving lyrical marks into clay surfaces inspired both by Inyi pottery traditions and the experimental practices emerging at Nsukka. I wanted to create “paintings in clay.” At the same time, I became fascinated by El Anatsui’s ceramic the “Broken Pots” series from the late 1970s. I later worked closely with him as a personal assistant while completing my MFA. Handling those works gave me insight into his experimental treatment of clay bodies, including the use of recycled glass and manganese granules embedded into clay to create unexpected surface effects during firing.

 

That experience transformed the way I thought about clay. It encouraged me to experiment with recycled glass, alternative materials, and unconventional firing methods.

 

 

The environment at Nsukka was intensely political. Many of the artists and teachers had lived through the Nigerian Civil War. Their art was not decorative—it addressed violence, inequality, memory, and national trauma. Artists such as Olu Oguibe, Chike Aniakor, Obiora Udechukwu, Chika Okeke-Agulu, Krydz Ikwuemesi and others made work that confronted military rule and social injustice directly.

 

So I entered an environment where art and poetry were understood as forms of an intellectual and ethical engagement. That shaped my understanding of what art could do. I realized that ceramics could also carry political meaning.

 

Experimentation became possible when I established my own studio in the early 2000s. Before that, I worked under mentors like Benjo Igwilo, who taught me the fundamentals of ceramics, glazing, and kiln firing. When he retired, he generously transferred much of his studio equipment to me.

 

Having my own studio changed everything. It gave me freedom—the freedom to fail, refire, experiment endlessly, and push materials beyond conventional expectations. Ceramics requires patience. You fire, refire, test, lose work, and begin again. But that process of repetition and uncertainty became essential to my philosophy.

 

I do not begin by asking what material is fashionable or technically convenient. I ask what material already carries history. Palm kernel shells, recycled glass, local clay, ash from my mother’s kitchen—these are not neutral substances. They arrive with memory embedded within them.

 

Palm kernel shells speak about agriculture, trade, labor, and histories of extraction linked to colonial economies. Recycled glass fascinates me because it embodies transformation and renewal. Broken bottles become luminous surfaces resembling gemstones. Copper wire functions structurally and symbolically. It binds fragile ceramic units together, much like social relationships hold communities together.

 

I listen to materials constantly. After each firing, I study what the materials reveal—unexpected textures, accidental colors, fractures, or transformations. Sometimes the material itself begins to suggest the next direction of the work.

 

I do not see beauty and critique as opposites. In many African artistic traditions, beauty always carries social, spiritual, or political meaning. Ornament is never merely decorative. 

 

So in my work, beauty functions as an entry point. The shimmering surfaces, rhythmic repetitions, lace-like structures, and glowing colors attract viewers first. But as they look closer, they encounter histories of slavery, colonialism, extraction, displacement, and resilience. The materials themselves embody contradiction. Clay is fragile, yet enduring. It survives fire but can still fracture. That duality mirrors the human condition.

 

Thousands of fragile ceramic elements wired together become strong collectively. This reflects an Igbo proverb: A single broomstick breaks quickly; but a bundle of broomsticks does not break easily. Multiplicity creates strength.

 

The idea crystallized during the COVID lockdown. My family and I spent much of that period working together in the studio. During that time, I began thinking deeply about shields, armor, and protection—not only physical protection, but emotional, social, and cultural protection as well. COVID made everyone conscious of the notion of vulnerability. Masks, distancing, fear, isolation—all of these became forms of shielding.

 

At the same time, conflicts, political instability, and social fragmentation around the world intensified my interest in protection as both a necessity and a metaphor.

 

I think we defend human dignity above all else. We defend justice, memory, truth, and the ethical values that keep societies humane.

 

But protection is never equally distributed. Some lives are more exposed than others—the poor, displaced people, women, minorities, those who challenge power. A society should ultimately be judged by how it protects its most vulnerable members. Protection also carries moral cost. We must be careful not to defend security at the expense of freedom, or prosperity at the expense of justice and compassion.

 

My ceramic structures reinforce this idea. Individually, the elements are fragile. Together, they become resilient. What protects us is not isolation, but connection.

 

Artists may not solve political problems directly, but they can draw attention to them. Art creates spaces where difficult conversations become possible. Through poetic language and visual metaphor, artists can encourage people to rethink the world around them.

 

As a ceramic artist, I also believe in the importance of slowness. Ceramics demands patience, care, endurance, and acceptance of uncertainty. In today’s accelerated world, that process itself carries meaning.

 

Weight is both physical and symbolic. Many viewers assume the works are light because they resemble textiles or lace. But they are physically heavy. I wanted the titles to foreground that contradiction. 

 

The weight also reflects labor, time, history, and burden. Themes such as slavery, colonialism, governance, and environmental degradation are heavy subjects. So the material weight becomes a metaphor for historical and emotional gravity.

 

MORE RECENTLY, YOU HAVE INTRODUCED PIGMENTS ALONGSIDE RECYCLED MATERIALS. WHAT PROMPTED THIS EVOLUTION IN YOUR PRACTICE, AND WHAT POSSIBILITIES HAS COLOR OPENED FOR YOU CONCEPTUALLY OR FORMALLY? 

For many years my palette was dominated by earth tones—ash glazes, natural clay colors, and subdued surfaces. A major turning point came during a visit to Paris in 2023, when I visited Musée du Quai Branly and encountered richly embroidered garments from different cultures and countries. I became fascinated by how color functioned not simply as decoration, but as ceremony, prestige, and emotional intensity. After returning to Nigeria, I began importing brightly colored earthenware glazes from London. These introduced saturated reds, oranges, and purples into the work. 

Color expanded the emotional and conceptual vocabulary of my practice. It allowed the work to speak not only about history and endurance, but also about celebration, dignity, and radiance.

 

The idea of fragile strength lies at the heart of my practice. Clay appears soft and vulnerable when wet, yet after firing it can endure for centuries. Still, it never loses the possibility of fracture. 

 

That dual condition—durability combined with vulnerability—has become a metaphor for human existence itself. We survive through connection, patience, repair, and transformation. That is ultimately what my work seeks to express.