The day everything changed, Omar Ba was sitting in a classroom at a technical school in Dakar, Senegal, facing an impossible assignment. Rather than hand in a blank page, he drew a figure being stabbed in the back. His mechanics teacher looked at the drawing, then at the student, and asked a simple question: “What are you doing in this school?”
That was twenty five years ago. Since then, Omar Ba has never stopped drawing.
It is in Bambilor, thirty kilometers from Dakar, that DakArtNews went to meet him. A quiet afternoon. The dogs greet you at the gate, then settle down. The courtyard opens onto the chicken coop, the cows, the donkey — animal life, unhurried, that immediately imposes its own rhythm. Then the mango trees, dense and close together, absorbing the light and whatever is left of the outside world. And only at the end, only then, does the building reveal itself. Large, silent, filled with carefully sourced antique furniture and canvases in progress. A cup of tea sits on the table. Omar Ba is at home.
Between Switzerland and Senegal, he has divided his life for years — moving between both shores without ever fully choosing, as though the work itself needed this in-between to exist. It is here, in Bambilor, that he returns. Here that he thinks. Here that he works.
At 48, his paintings hang in some of the world’s most important collections — among them the Centre Pompidou, the Louvre Abu Dhabi, and the Fondation Louis Vuitton. From the United Nations headquarters in New York to the Baltimore Museum of Art, from the Royal Academy of Arts in London to the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, from the Dakar Biennale to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, his work has traveled across continents.
It took him over twenty years to get here. And yet, sitting in this studio at the end of a mango grove, what strikes you most is not the recognition. It is the conviction. The unshakeable belief that every canvas is a battlefield, every title a declaration, every brushstroke a political choice. Omar Ba doesn’t make art to decorate walls. He makes art because, for him, silence was never an option.
You live between Switzerland and Senegal. What changes for you when working in Senegal?
Working in Senegal changes many things. First, there is the environment, the light, the atmosphere. Everything here feels very luminous. You feel more grounded, more at peace, because you are in the country where you were born, the place that watched you grow up.
There is also the social dimension of everyday life. I work while taking into account everything that surrounds me: family, relatives, the people around me, the dogs, the daily interactions. You feel that you are sharing a living space with others, and that feeds the work in a very strong way. I really appreciate that human presence, that sense of closeness. Elsewhere, you can sometimes find yourself in more isolated environments, where those moments of connection are less present. Here, that collective energy is an integral part of my creative process.
You first studied mechanics before entering art school. How did art come into your life?
I think art has always been there. It was something natural for me. I can’t help but create. Art became something vital. At the time, though, I was studying general mechanics at a Japanese school in Dakar. I wanted a stable job, a salary, and to be useful to society. We learned welding, precision measurements, and how to work with machines.
But one day, a professor gave us an impossible assignment. Knowing I was going to get a zero, I drew a character stabbed in the back instead.When he saw the drawing, he asked me to come back a few days later. I thought he was going to punish me. Instead, he sat me down in front of a computer and started talking to me about colors, about mixing blue and yellow, and what you could create with images. Then he looked at me and said: “What are you doing in this school?” He explained that if I finished the program, I would have a guaranteed job, but I would spend my life behind a lathe. And then he told me something I’ve never forgotten: “Maybe with art, you’ll be able to travel and live from what you do.” That was the day I went to inquire about the Fine Art school in Dakar.
At that time, did you already see yourself as an artist?
Not at all. I had been drawing since childhood, but I never thought it could become a career. In elementary school, teachers would often ask me to reproduce diagrams on the blackboard because I was good at drawing. But I didn’t call myself an “artist.” I mostly copied images I saw in cowboy movies or comic books. Today, I believe certain encounters change your trajectory. That meeting with my professor changed my life.
What did your mechanical training leave in your way of working?
A lot of things. Mechanics taught me rigor, precision, and how to build a project from start to finish — going from an idea to something concrete. Even today, in my installations and sculptures, everything involving welding or fabricating objects comes from that background. There’s also a discipline in the work. When I’m working, there might be disorder, but I like knowing where things are. That kind of organization also comes from my training.
Your arrival in Geneva was much more difficult than one might imagine today.
Extremely difficult. When I arrived in Switzerland in the early 2000s, there were very few visible African artists on the international scene. You could see William Kentridge, Chéri Samba, El Anatsui — just a handful of names. But in most galleries, there were no Black African artists. I arrived during a period when people were saying painting was dead. That everything had already been done. It was the era of installations, multimedia, and conceptual practices. At the Geneva art school, they were cutting painting professors and shutting down traditional sculpture. I showed up with painting. And on top of that, a kind of painting considered “African.” There were very limiting expectations.
People wanted to see masks and immediately recognizable ethnic signs — what they expected from an African artist. Above all, I couldn’t break into the networks. To be seen, someone has to show you. If the circle is closed, you’re excluded from the start. I exhibited in cafés, hair salons — places where no one really wanted to show art. Sometimes there were only three people at the opening. Other artists told me I was “burned.” That once you exhibit in places not meant for art, established galleries and museums won’t take you anymore. It’s like exhibiting at the fish market — your audience is worthless, and you’re tainted. I lived through that. But honestly, at that time, I had nothing to lose.
How did you survive?
I sold drawings. Sometimes for two or three hundred euros. When I sold something, I bought materials and food. I lived in squats — marginal artist communities that occupied rich people’s houses. One or two hundred francs a month for upkeep, nothing more. There were times I woke up with nothing to eat. But I had what I needed to create. And that was enough. After a while, you find ways to manage. But that’s how it was. Those were the sacrifices you had to make to resist and to exist.
Looking back, has this late recognition protected you in any way?
I think it has protected me in several ways. First, it allowed me to mature before arriving — to understand how things work, to suffer and to learn. Because if you shine too fast without understanding, you can burn out quickly. I started from very low. I took the time to observe and train over the long term. It taught me to keep my feet on the ground — to know that those who are still at the bottom are no less artists. They just haven’t reached the right place yet to shine.
What would you say to a young artist who is struggling today?
You have to believe in yourself. You have to dare to spend time in your studio. And you have to learn to embrace solitude — not to be afraid of being alone. That’s the hardest part. Don’t get discouraged. Be tenacious, hold on, and follow your thoughts and your creation all the way through. You have to dig deep. Don’t fall into the simplicity of trends — because if something is working and you see others doing it, that’s not a reason to copy it. An artist should be recognized by their work. They shouldn’t even need to sign their pieces. If you’re authentic and fully committed to what you do, you don’t need that redundancy of a signature. And you have to learn to live with very little — just what you need to create.
Your work shifted from abstraction to figuration when you arrived in Switzerland. Was that a concession?
When I arrived with my abstraction, the professors told me: “Technically, you’re good. You have everything you need. But it doesn’t touch us. It’s not our story. There’s nothing that makes us want to start a conversation around what you do.” And the purpose of art is to communicate. So I understood there was a problem. I had transposed Africa into Europe without placing it in its new context. That was the mistake.
You can move your culture, but you have to put it in the context where you are now. If you’ve left, it’s to learn and to add to who you are — not to remain what you were. I started introducing figures into my work. Figures are universal — everyone understands a character. But my painting remains abstract with figuration on top. Little by little, I became interested in African history, the history of peoples, and the relationship between North and South. That’s how I built my discourse — because between creation and the artist, there is also the discourse.
Does Senegal still remain at the heart of your work despite the distance?
The foundation of everything is Senegal. But navigating between continents gives me perspective. It’s like looking at a painting too closely — you can’t see the essential. When you step back, you understand better what’s there. Being in Switzerland has allowed me to have a more critical view of the continent. When you’re in the middle of it, you can’t fully grasp it. When you move away, you see it differently. And that perspective nourishes what I do.
What is art to you, and how do you approach the idea of beauty in your work?
For me, art is a way of asserting oneself, of existing, of transforming things, and of conveying messages. It is also a way of having an impact on the things that shape us or on the things we would like to change. Art is a commitment. It is what allows me to be who I am, to live, and to exist. I search for beauty, and I think beauty is something I try to bring into my work. Now, I do not know if I always achieve it. But what I do know is that I look for a form of beauty that comes with a discourse. I like beauty, and I think it is through beauty that one can address subjects that may sometimes be painful or difficult, but become more acceptable because they are conveyed differently.
Regarding your visual work, your hybrid characters — half-human, half-animal — are both terrifying and magnificent. Don’t they risk making acceptable what they denounce?
That was exactly my dilemma at the beginning: how to mix violence, criticism, and beauty. For me, a work without a title is like having a child and not giving it a name. Or a country without a name. The title is a commitment. It’s political. It completes the work — you say what you think, you take a stand. As for these hybrid beings, I looked at the animal kingdom. The most terrible animals kill to live, to feed themselves. Humans, on the other hand, kill to destroy.
From that perspective, there’s no difference — humans behave like beasts in the jungle. That’s where these creatures come from. I dress them in subtle, pleasant settings to encourage the viewer to spend time with the work and really look at it. But looking only at the image risks misunderstanding. It risks glorification. Connecting it with the title brings understanding. Because each title precisely defines what I’m talking about. It is the indispensable complement.
You speak of art as a form of activism. What revolts you the most today?
The double standard. We live in a world that claims everyone loves each other and that people communicate — but the humiliations and historical violence have never been corrected. There are subjects people don’t want to address. We are not yet able to fully affirm ourselves as human beings on this planet.
And when you start having responsibilities, a family, children — you have to explain all of this. It’s a legacy full of responsibilities. As Cheikh Anta Diop said: the day Africa can stand before the United Nations and bring what it has accomplished — not just to ask for help or solutions from elsewhere — that day, we will no longer manage our destiny by proxy. Because handing over your responsibilities to someone else puts you in a position where you don’t control your own fate. And we see that. Even in art, we see it.
“Art Is Not a Game. It’s a Form of Violence.”
In 2021, you had a solo show titled Anomalies, with enigmatic figurative paintings exploring the fragility of democracy, political violence, and the contradictions of human freedom. Was this also an illustration of your engagement?
“Anomalies” was above all a reflection on dysfunctions: the anomalies of life, of our societies, and of history. A history often written by the victors, which continues to create gaps between peoples and fuel cycles of violence and humiliation. When you observe the world from its origins, you see it was built on violence, domination, and aggression.
And even today, if you look at what’s happening in Iran, the war between Russia and Ukraine, or the conflicts in Mali with jihadist groups, you find the same logic. The question is to understand who benefits from this violence. As an artist, working on these subjects and developing a critical perspective allows us to question these realities and try to offer avenues for reflection.
What questions trouble you today?
What deeply troubles me is the question of the world’s balance. How do we show that, wherever we go, human beings carry the same fundamental values, yet in reality these values are not always lived in the same way? I realize that dignity, respect, inner strength, and being at peace with oneself are not self-evident. They are constructions, constant efforts. And through travelling, through my interest in history and in what has taken place over time, I come to understand that this equality of treatment is not yet a reality for everyone, particularly for Black people.
There are frustrations, whether they are expressed or not. We speak of a supposedly just world, a space where peoples communicate and coexist harmoniously, but it is clear that certain historical wounds have not been healed. Some subjects remain difficult to address. And this creates a sense of disconnection, as if not everyone is yet fully recognized in their humanity.
Cheikh Anta Diop already said it: there will come a time when Africa will be able to fully assert itself within the concert of nations, contributing what it has achieved, rather than remaining in a position of request or waiting. As long as this is not the case, we remain in a form of dependence that limits our control over our own destiny. This is something we feel very concretely, including in the artistic field. Even as an artist, one often has to struggle to find a framework, recognition, legitimacy.
And that is why I say that art is not a game. It is not only an aesthetic commitment. There is a certain harshness, almost a form of violence. It is not always “rosy.” There is solitude, constant doubt. Even when one is recognized, even when one sells, if one remains authentic, one lives with these questions all the time.
What are your doubts today?
My doubts are first the fear of disappointing. Of not being up to the task. Sometimes also feeling a drop, a loss of intensity in what I do. I doubt when I feel I’m not being critical enough, or not pushing my reflection far enough. Because at the core, there is always this search for perfection, this desire to go higher and deeper. We move forward constantly; we cannot be satisfied with reproducing what already worked. We cannot redo the same thing just because it sold.
People expect certain things, of course, but an artist cannot repeat themselves. They must always create and reinvent. And that’s where doubt becomes essential. I even believe it’s a strength. Doubt is what makes you ask: Will I manage it again this time? Will I go further? Will I propose something more interesting than what I’ve already done? Without doubt, it’s easy to fall into comfort, repetition, and safety. But being an artist means accepting risk. And to take risks, you inevitably have to doubt.
That doubt then becomes energy. An inner tension that feeds creation. It creates surges, waking up at 4 a.m., that moment when you get up and say: I have to try, I have to make it. This has been working this way for me for over 25 years. And I believe it is deeply part of the essence of being an artist.
The black background has become almost a signature in some of your works. Is it still a conscious choice today?
Always conscious. The black background is like the night — perspective can disappear, but for me, every object and every thing finds its place. I often say I am in perfect harmony with this black. I feel that any color I put on it will give me exactly what I want. But it’s also a metaphor. A way of glorifying the color black — of saying that it is noble and magnificent, and that with a continent as rich as ours, and people as strong as ours, we can build anything we want. You just have to know how to use it. That’s also what the black background represents. It is an affirmation.
Your work often escapes the categories in which people sometimes try to confine contemporary African artists. Do you still feel certain external expectations or projections on your work?
Yes, I think what we must avoid is being locked into categories or trends: “African art,” “Indian art,” or even labels tied to a country or region. These are often notions that become trends, contextual effects, and then fade. I try to stay attentive to that. Because for me, art is not a trend: it is a process of evolution, creation, and engagement.
Today, I would especially like artists to be invited everywhere — to biennales and major international events — not just as a token representation based on origin, but as presences fully inscribed in the history of world art.
Is there a subject you haven’t yet dared to paint, not for lack of inspiration, but because it still resists you?
Yes, I think there are subjects I’ve already touched on but haven’t gone deep into yet. For example, everything related to belief and religion. These are themes I’ve brushed against, but I haven’t fully explored them yet, because they require different parameters and another approach that I’m still trying to grasp.There are also social subjects, notably violence against children or against women. These are realities I haven’t truly treated in depth. I’ve approached them, yes, but still incompletely. So these are territories I haven’t fully explored, but they remain present, and I will no doubt return to them.
After more than twenty years as an artist, what has art brought to your life?
Art has allowed me to travel, to go to countries I never would have imagined, to meet people from different communities — doctors, lawyers, artists from all over the world. It has allowed me to help people: my family, people I didn’t even know. It has opened doors I thought were reserved for others — for famous people, for people from another world. But above all, what has marked me the most is this opening to myself. Art has allowed me to better understand who I was and where I came from. The fact of becoming interested in history and trying to better understand the history of the continent — it was through art that I found that key. And that key has allowed me to open many doors I wouldn’t have known how to open otherwise.
Read also
Amadou Diaw, Architect of MuPho, Makes Photography the Beating Heart of Saint-Louis, Senegal
Against Hierarchy, Toward Community: How Esinam Damalie is rethinking curatorial practice in Africa
Marie-Cécile Zinsou on Why Museums Matter in Africa — and Who They Are For
Bridging Africa and The World Through Contemporary Art 
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