Volumes unsaid, Volumes Expressed

Two faces fill the frame against a black void, the darkness swallowing all but their skin painted in colors of the Nigerian flag. On the left, a bearded man tilts his head slightly forward, his face calm, his eyes lowered. Across his forehead, nose, and cheeks, the green-white-green of the Nigerian flag is painted with deliberate strokes—slightly textured, imperfect enough to reveal the canvas is human skin. His beard forms a natural shadow that deepens the contrast between the bright flag and blends into the black background. They do not look at us. And because of this, the image feels like something we have stumbled upon—an intimacy we are allowed to witness but not interrupt.

Resting her head on his shoulder is a woman, her face turned towards the viewer but her gaze cast downward. Her eyes are soft, almost closed, and her mouth—painted in alternating green and white—is relaxed. The flag’s green covers her eyes like a mask, and beneath her cheekbone, small white flowers bloom in paint, their petals sharp against her skin. Her lips, green and white, do not open. The flower blooms on her cheek—five petals, a small rebellion against the heaviness of the flag. The vine curves towards her temple, as though memory itself were creeping upwards. Together, their heads form a diagonal line in the composition, a shared axis of intimacy. The surrounding darkness isolates them, making the colors on their faces burn bright.

The Fine Art Photography titled Atumatu Madu Lara Niyi—translated loosely as “Drenched Dreams”—anchors the work in a reflective Nigerian context. It is one of the pieces exhibited by Chidozie Oliver Maduka in his Solo Exhibition of same title ‘Atumatu Madu Lara Niyi’ – Drenched Dre held at the Art Place Studio, Lagos between May 10th to 24th, 2023

The green-white-green undertone is unmistakable: the Nigerian flag as both a declaration of belonging and an emblem of hope. Green, in the national symbolism, speaks to the land and its abundance; white, to peace and unity. Yet here, the flag is not flying—it is worn on skin. It becomes personal, lived-in, and perhaps weighed down by the realities it represents.

The floral detail on the woman’s face adds another layer: a reminder of fragility, growth, and the organic cycles that nations, like people, endure. In many African visual traditions, body painting is ceremonial, a language of identity, protest, or celebration. Here, the act of painting transforms the sitters into living canvases, their skin holding a shared narrative of patriotism, intimacy, and resilience.

The power of the photograph lies in its stillness. The subjects do not look out to confront the viewer; instead, their lowered eyes create an inwardness, a refusal to perform nationalism in a loud, triumphant key—their own form of patriotism. This is not the flag at a rally or on a government building—it is the flag in the quiet of a studio, painted onto bodies that carry both its promise and its disappointments. The darkness around them strips away distractions, so that the only landscape here is human skin.

The intimacy between the two—the gentle rest of her head on his shoulder—turns the image into a portrait of solidarity. It reads not only as romantic or familial closeness, but as a shared endurance, the kind of togetherness forged in a place where dreams can be drenched, but not erased.

The texture of the paint, its slight unevenness, is crucial: it resists the polish of propaganda, instead suggesting handmade and provisional. Dreams are not yet fulfilled; they are in the making. And the flower painted on the woman’s face—perhaps the smallest element—becomes the quiet insistence that even under weight, there is still room for beauty to grow.

The skin as portrayed here—a kind of canvas— exposing how paint changes the way we see a face. Here, green-white-green is not a flag in the wind. It is the country pressed into the skin, breathing through pores.

The title says Drenched Dreams. I think of it as rain, heavy enough to blur a painted wall. I think of how the colors still remain, even when the plaster is cracked.

What they carry is not spectacle—it is a quiet weight. The kind that makes two people lean into each other, so neither falls.

By Benson Idonije