How I (un)follow art

I do not know how to follow art the way people want me to follow it.

There is a path that is offered to artists, sometimes gently, sometimes aggressively. It is a path made of advice that sounds reasonable. Build a portfolio. Choose a style. Be consistent. Network. Stay visible. Apply to the right places. Say the right things. Become readable. Become professional. Become a name that can be placed into a sentence without making anyone uncomfortable.

Many artists can walk that path and still keep their spirit. I respect them.

But for me, that path feels like a slow disappearance of the parts of me that are most alive. It feels like becoming a version of myself that fits into someone else’s idea of what an artist should be.

So I do something else. I (un)follow art.

I unfollow it the way you unfollow an account that keeps telling you who you should be. I unfollow it the way you step out of a conversation that is starting to harm you. I unfollow it the way you stop repeating a story that no longer belongs to you.

Unfollowing does not mean I reject art. It means I reject the rules around art that pretend to be natural. It means I refuse the social script that says, if you want to be taken seriously, you must behave like this. You must produce like this. You must speak like this. You must position yourself like this.

I make work, but I do not always want to “be an artist” in the way the world defines it.

Because that definition is often built for people who already belong.

And I need to say something clearly here. I am African. That is not a theme for me. That is not a costume. That is not a marketing angle. That is the ground I come from, and it shapes how I move through every space.

When I enter art spaces, I often feel a pressure that is hard to name. A pressure to be legible in a certain way. A pressure to be grateful. A pressure to represent. A pressure to explain my background so the room can relax. A pressure to carry my identity in a way that is easy for others to hold.

And when I refuse that pressure, people can read me as difficult, distant, unpredictable. They can read my silence as arrogance. They can read my inconsistency as lack of discipline. They can read my refusal as failure.

But my refusal is not failure. It is choice.

I unfollow art because I do not want my work to become a performance of belonging for someone else.

I have watched how art worlds create trends like weather. One season, everyone wants loud. Next season, everyone wants quiet. One season, everyone wants political pain. Next season, everyone wants softness. One season, everyone wants “authenticity.” Next season, everyone wants “conceptual.” These trends move fast, and they can make artists chase them like a hungry animal chasing scraps.

I have felt that temptation too. The temptation to adjust myself to be accepted. The temptation to produce what gets attention. The temptation to shape my work into what people already understand.

But when I chase that, I lose something. I lose the reason I started making in the first place.

So I unfollow the trend. I unfollow the expectation. I unfollow the demand to be current.

Sometimes this makes me invisible. Sometimes it makes me miss opportunities. Sometimes it makes people forget me. And that hurts.

I want to be honest about that. It hurts to be outside. It hurts to feel like you are always arriving in spaces where people already know the language and you are still translating yourself in your head. It hurts to see artists get supported not only because they are good, but because they are easy to manage. Easy to categorize. Easy to present.

I am not always easy.

But I am real.

And my work comes from a place that is not designed to perform smoothness.

People ask, why are you always out of everything. Why do you disappear. Why do you step back. Why do you break connection. Why do you avoid the usual path.

The simple answer is that I do not trust the usual path to protect my work.

The deeper answer is that I do not trust the usual path to protect me.

Because following art often means following a system. A system with gatekeepers. A system with unspoken rules. A system where you are invited into rooms if you behave correctly, if you do not disturb the comfort of the room too much.

And I disturb comfort by existing honestly.

Not because I want conflict, but because I refuse to shrink my complexity into something polite. I refuse to become a simple story. I refuse to let my identity be used as a decoration or a proof that the room is diverse.

So I become out of everything.

Not completely. Not forever. But often.

I step out of rooms that want to own me.

I step out of conversations that want to define me.

I step out of systems that want my work but not my truth.

This stepping out is not a rejection of community. I do want community. I do want to be seen by people who look with care. I do want collaboration. I do want support.

But I want it on terms that do not require me to betray myself.

So I unfollow art in the places where art becomes an industry of obedience.

There is also something very personal about my unfollowing. Something emotional. Something almost childlike.

I get tired of being watched.

I get tired of being asked to explain.

I get tired of being turned into a project for other people.

Sometimes I want to make work like a person breathes. Quietly. Naturally. Without a crowd.

But the art world can make you feel like breathing is not enough. It can make you feel like you must always be producing something visible, always proving your worth. It can make you fear that if you are not constantly present, you will disappear in the worst way.

So I do a strange thing.

I choose to disappear in my own way.

I choose to be out of everything on purpose rather than being pushed out by the system.

That choice gives me a small freedom. It hurts, but it also frees.

Because when I am out of everything, I can hear myself again. I can return to the work without noise. I can return to the question that matters most to me, which is not how to be successful, but how to be honest.

And honesty is not always rewarded quickly.

I also unfollow art because I refuse to treat art history like a strict family tree that I must obey. People love to ask, who are your influences. Who do you follow. What movement do you belong to. What tradition are you continuing.

Sometimes those questions are genuine. Sometimes they are just a way of placing you into a category so the speaker can feel confident.

I do not want to be placed too quickly.

My influences are not only other artists. My influences are streets, silences, migrations, faith, doubt, family, distance, forms of refusal, moments when language fails, moments when I have to translate myself to survive. My influences are also things I do not want to explain fully, because explaining them can cheapen them.

So I unfollow the idea that my work must be justified by a lineage.

I unfollow the idea that I must locate myself inside a movement to be legitimate.

I have learned that legitimacy is often just permission, and permission is often controlled by people who do not know me.

So I choose my own permission.

This is another reason I will always be out of everything. Because I do not want to build my life around being approved.

I want my work to be true whether or not it is applauded.

I want my work to be real whether or not it is invited into the right rooms.

I want my work to be mine even when it costs me attention.

That does not mean I am not ambitious. I am ambitious in my own way. I want my work to travel. I want it to be encountered. I want it to matter. I want it to create something in people.

But I do not want to climb a ladder that makes me smaller at every step.

And sometimes art ladders do that. They demand a certain personality. A certain predictability. A certain smoothness. They demand that you become less complicated so the institution can manage you.

I refuse.

So I unfollow art by unfollowing the performance of being an artist.

I do not always show up.

I do not always explain.

I do not always produce on schedule.

I do not always stay in the same place.

I do not always keep the same voice.

And yes, that can make me out of everything. Outside the conversations, outside the networks, outside the predictable structures.

But it also keeps my work alive.

Because the work I make comes from the edge. From the places where the system is not comfortable. From the places where identity is not simple. From the places where communication breaks. From the places where silence can be a language.

If I followed art too closely, I would lose that edge.

I would become smooth.

I would become safe.

I would become a version of myself that looks successful but feels dead.

And I am not interested in dead success.

So I stay out.

Sometimes I come close, and sometimes I step away again. Sometimes I accept invitations, and sometimes I refuse. Sometimes I enter the room, and sometimes I leave before anyone can tell me who I am.

This is not a game. It is a survival rhythm.

It is also a promise.

A promise to myself that I will not betray the work for the comfort of belonging.

Because belonging is not always love. Sometimes belonging is control.

Sometimes belonging asks you to obey.

Sometimes belonging asks you to smile while you are being reduced.

I would rather be out of everything than belong to something that requires me to disappear inside it.

So yes.

I am African, and I carry that reality into every art space.

I am an artist, but I do not perform the artist role the way the world expects.

I want connection, but I do not want capture.

I want recognition, but I do not want reduction.

That is why I will always be a little out of everything.

Not because I have nothing to offer.

Because I refuse to offer myself in a way that makes me smaller.

I (un)follow art so I can follow what is true.

Even if it leads me away from the crowd.

Even if it leaves me outside the room.

Even if it means the work arrives quietly, like a message that is not shouting, but still real. That is how I (un)follow art.