There is Beauty in the Wild


I made her out of earth, moulded her into the canvas and gently sculpted her gesture and her curves. I sheltered her with vines and ferns, embracing her to give her cover. She sits in her shelter, gently disposition, shy as she is ,she looks to the other side. She is raw, pure, untouched, nude to show her lack of desire for mundane things. She is in the wild. She is the beauty in the wild.

I returned to our humble beginnings, the creation of man, and how we once lived. Unclothed, at one with nature, running free in the bushes. Technology has revamped the world, a simple existence like this , now so rare, it’s even seen as queer .Imagine a world where the wild once thrived, now a thing of the past but there is beauty in the wild

there is beauty in the wild, mixed media on canvas, 24″x24″, on sale at Gallery Guichard, 436E, 47th street, Bronzeville , Chicago, IL,

Nina Fabunmi

Someone’s watching


Daddy died in June last year. He shut his eyes in sleep and never awoke. His spiritual being decided to exit his body and still he is asleep. I have cried , I am still crying and I am wandering where he went. I started doing a lot of research on life after death. I even consulted Buddhism and Hinduism to try to figure this out. Where did daddy go? Can he see me? What is his next move?

When he was ill two years ago, he saw spirits wandering on the highway he travelled. They tried to call him in , but he was not ready to go. I know now that there are those who wander the earth but can’t be seen.

When I walk by and hear the motion of the wind whistling through the trees, I feel like I hear voices. The sun looks down on us , passing the baton to the moon at night. Birds in the sky look over us. I feel like daddy sees me, he is an angel in heaven wearing a golden robe that glows. Telling me that he is with me always and that I will soar above all that I have to conquer to live a fulfilled life.

We walk on the same streets that other’s walk on. There are eyes everywhere , the ones we see and those that we don’t see because someone is watching.

“Someone is watching” mixed media on canvas 24 x24 inches , available at Gallery Guichard , Bronzeville me Chicago



Could she charm you with a gaze
Place you in a maze
I put her in a haze
Slapped the paint unto the canvas to capture her energy
Colors , that she may reveal her coco hide
How the light bounces back and forth off it
A face that you may embrace
She looks at you, calling you
Interactive, this piece talks to you
Clothed in her hair
Falling off her back
She turns to you

Detour at Union Square


Men in dressed in neon orange, working day in and day out. Digging , hitting , drilling , escavating , aided by their heavy machinery. Each time I pass by the street seems to assume a new look. At Christmas , it was a park, I walked on green grass and sat on white seats that glowed, but when the new year came, the barricades were mounted, the grass turned to sand, and out came the men in their neon suits again.

I thought I could take a walk, and watch the cars drive by, I wanted to play on the grass again and watch the children roll on it. Gentrification , a word I have become accustomed to hearing anytime someone talks about the changes happening in the city. As an artist , I feel obliged to document visually , to remember what it used to be. We couldn’t drive by and when we walked by we had to be given directions , looking up at the luminous orange street sign that said , “Detour at Union Square”.



Rock brick and mortar, all submerged

The wandering wind blew hard

It grazed the surface relentlessly till it could see a face

Smelted and melted, she was molded into form

They said she came from bone

The rib of the man she was made to serve

Blood in her veins

She twirled in the clouds

In her subconscious, a breath of life



Split Image


I tried to describe this piece but his words were better than mine, so I quote…

“Split Image is the portrait of a man drenched in the mesmerizing but indefinable contours of a convoluted identity. This is the portrait of a proud and defiant individual who comports himself with an audacity that is at once confounding and inviting. Fabunmi’s spirit soars in this painting, accented as it were by brush strokes that are suggestive of the privilege granted only to a few. He is Caucasian. Really? He is Black: a product of some form of miscegenation, the type that the African-American artist, Archibald Motley, loved to celebrate in his paintings. Or is her? He is Rastafarian. He is …Well, he could be Nina Fabunmi’s alter ego: a subconscious articulation of her notion of Black Diaspora. Fabunmi enunciates in this painting the pangs and agonies, the stoicism and determination, the pride and confidence, which are contingent on the assertion of selfhood and issues of identity.”
……….Dele Jegede
Art Historian, Art Critic, Art Administrator, Painter & Cartoonist.

‘Split Image’ won Best of the Show for Artist Portfolio Magazine Portraits Edition in 2014 and is published in Issue 15 & Issue 19 of the magazine.

Cliff House by the Sea


T’was not the cool summer breeze that snuck up on me

Touched me tenderly

Filtering through my clothing

Tossing my hair to the obedience of the wind

No, it wasn’t

T’was not the calming sound of the rolling waves

Rocking back and forth

Lacing the ocean line with seashells, strange blue jelly fish and crabs astray

Not the kiss of the mid day sun

Shinning down with gentle warmth

Causing the sea to shimmer

A horizon with a silver lining

It looked like precious platinum

How could it be?

Lovely scenery, yes

The beauty of nature, magnificence

Bringing with it with it, peace and serenity

Not even that…..

T’was the presence of the one who made it complete

Holding hands, we strolled by the shore

We left our footprints in the sand

We let the water wash our feet

We made snapshots to define our bond

Watched by the cliff house by the beach

We waited to bid the sun good bye

It gently descended into the sea

And glazed the skies in a violet rage

It looked like the fire the burns between us

The wind became chilly

And we held each other through the scenic makeover

By the Cliff house by the sea

“Breeze Across Cliff House”, oil on canvas, 6″ x 6″, 2014  is at Studio Gallery SF, 1641 Pacific Avenue, San Francisco, CA, 94109,



Transition is very emotional. I think about all that I left behind to be here but what I have and what I hope to achieve, far outweighs it. I once walked on dusty streets without sidewalks and worried about the mosquitoes sucking blood from my children as they slept at night. How many times I had to patched those holes on the mosquitoes nets but they still found their way in. They even became immune to the insecticides that were supposed to eliminate them, they won the war and buzzed in our ears to remind us of their victory.

The heat due to lack of electricity, the wet pillows that we sought comfort from, drenched in our own midnight sweat. The next battle became the war against malaria.

My kitchen where I could not preserve my cooking, my food gone to rot, the refrigerator died due to power fluctuation. Rats crept under the metal door and continuously fed on our food storage competing with the cockroaches both big and small. I went to bed at night and lay beside a man I once called my husband, pretending to love him to avoid his fist yet thinking about the other man I once loved but could not be married to due to society’s disapproval. I craved for him silently accepting my loss and struggling to accept my lot.

I went to a job I had to, it frustrated me to be there but it provided for the family. I drove for one and a half hours through the madness of Lagos traffic to get there in the comfort of my four wheel drive,one of my proudest accomplishments. I remember the day I bought that SUV and tore the rubber off it, I sat in the drivers seat, clenching the steering wheel and sucking in the smell of my brand new ride. It saw me though that arduous journey to work, serenaded by the music of Celine Dione playing in my CD player. I worked hard to pay the bills, I frequently awoke at midnight to pursue the passion that kept me sane, I had to make art, I had to paint, I just kept painting. Sometimes, I’d stagger to work the next day still sleepy from the lack of sleep. Grateful for my cozy parking space and the cushioned seats in my jeep which became a haven to catch up on lost sleep. Leaving work, I would drop my managerial hat at the door and go home to continue in my role of mother and wife, one that sometimes gave me joy but also wore me out, I had to stay inspired, I had to keep on painting.

Staying true to my passion and holding on to my dreams, here I am now in San Francisco California. My art paved the way for me. I am walking on the sidewalks of tarred roads adorned with dog pup and pee, a sight I have gotten used to, never complaining due to my immigrant gratitude. Household pest and rodents now a thing of the past. There is electricity, I actually drink water from the tap, my food stays refrigerated and I only perspire when I go to the gym. The scars of the mosquito bites that once covered my children’s skin, now all faded away , drifting with the memories of the discomfort they once felt. I am painting to pay the bills now and I am working two jobs that I love. I read about my art in newspapers and magazines from authors I never knew. My paintings are being collected by art lovers whom I never had pervious affiliations with. I am constantly inspired to make art . I am motivated by this and yet another source…..

Emotional again with a heart full of thankfulness, I find myself loving again. I have taken a dive,I am deep in it, wearing my heart on my sleeves and shaking in my boots in the fear of a heartbreak. I constantly remember all that I have been through in the name of love. It has given me much happiness yet caused me so much sorrow that I gave up on it. So why am I doing this again. There are forces on earth that we cannot comprehend and this one is not on me. Greek mythology blames it on Cupid, I tend to agree. I am not in control, I got carried away by a weird winding wind that dropped me in his arms. It cast a spell on me and I am in a hypnotic state. I am in love but I am afraid. I am emotional.


He looks in the mirror but he sees not himself, he sees the man inside him, the one he struggles to hide, the one that he denies, he sees himself but he knows not who he is. He is a ‘Stranger’.

In search of identity, in search of truth. We often ask ourselves who we are. We think we know but we know not. Our curiosity leads us down an unwinding path of self discovery.

Stripped down to the bone and still searching for our identity. Who are we? where did we come from? why are we here.

Who is black and who is white and all the inbetweens? Why is racial classification so deep rooted in society.

If we all strip off the flesh that clothes our bones, then are we all not the same. Then who does that make us?

What we are is beyond what we see, we need to confront the stranger within in order to begin the search for our true identity.SONY DSC