The Dancing Face

“That’s very interesting,” he said. “But, forgive me, you’re speaking as an academic theorist.” He held up his hand to forestall Gus’s protest. “I don’t mean that what you’re saying isn’t true. I’m sure it is. But you’re missing something. Your plan comes out of a European imagination. It reduces everything to abstractions. When a European looks at the dancing mask, if he’s intelligent or educated, that is, he sees art. That is something separate from the reality of life. A thing to be appreciated or valued, or whatever the fuck Europeans do when they encounter what they call beauty.”
Gus blinked, staggered by the contempt in Okigbo’s voice when he said this. The Nigerian smiled again, as if he knew what Gus was thinking.
“When I think of this thing, I’m confronting the part of my life which is entwined with my feeling for my father and his father and for all the ancestors who have given life to my family and to my nation. It speaks of my dreams, of all the things we have done and felt in the past, and all the things we will do and feel in the future. It’s not art to be looked at and admired. It is a spirit.” He paused, studying Gus. “You understand the Christian doctrine of transubstantiation? This is the spirit which is transformed into substance by the power of faith.” He paused again. “That is the real mystery. That is why I want to see and touch it."