in conversation with Alpha Odh

I sat down with Alpha Odhiambo, a self-taught Kenyan artist whose work has travelled far beyond home, with exhibitions in Germany, Spain, Lithuania, and the United States. His story however, starts within Nairobi’s restless and ever-evolving art scene.His work is bold, honest and unfiltered, often mirroring the tensions of human nature and identity. For WhoWhatWhere Magazine, we spoke about how his definition of art has shifted over the years, what it means to make art in and about Kenya today, and the new art-forms he’s eager to explore next.

How would you describe yourself to anyone new to your artistry?

I’d describe myself as a contemporary African artist, that’s really the heart of it. I’m also a designer, though at my core, I’m mostly an artist. When I say designer, I mean it in a broad sense. I enjoy shaping ideas into something practical, whether that’s visual, functional, or conceptual. I’m drawn to taking things, whether they work or not, and refining them into better, more usable forms. That’s the kind of creativity I thrive on.

What is the earliest memory of your own creative expression?

Ah, you remember creative arts class? That’s probably where it all started. I must’ve been around six or so. We had creative arts in school, and for some reason, I was just good at it. I didn’t even have to study, and I’d still pass. Soon enough, I became that guy, the one who drew all the science charts for the school. You know those big diagrams they’d hang up in class? Yeah, that was me. That was in primary school. Then in high school, it kind of evolved. I was in a boys’ school, and I started doing calligraphy, drawing out names and letters for the guys to send to the sister school… for the chicks, you know? Laughs. That’s how it all began, really.

Were there artists you looked up to when starting out?

At the time, not really. I didn’t have any specific artists I looked up to. But between the ages of 10 and 13, I was online here and there; Facebook, cyber-café life,and I’d find random artworks, mostly commercial stuff. I didn’t have great taste, but I loved looking at them and saving them as wallpapers. My first real encounter with proper art was at the National Museum, also the first place I ever had a show. There was this Kenyan-British artist named Yony Waite. Her paintings had this shadow effect, like when sunlight filters through tree leaves. My favorite was a couch she painted that looked like it was sitting under a tree, dappled in light and shadow. That was the first time art really struck me. It made me see what was possible.

How has being self-taught shaped your relationship with experimentation and failure?

It has always been a trial-and-error kind of journey for me. I think that one of the biggest rewards of being self-taught is that you really get to learn through doing, without a set formula. I never really planned anything out. I just kept creating. One day I’d be into sketching, the next day I’d try something completely different. From around age 10 to maybe 17, Iwas just a kid experimenting, constantly shifting, perfecting one thing, then moving on when it no longer excited me.

That’s also why I don’t have a permanent style. Once I feel like a piece has said what I needed it to say, I naturally shift. I don’t want to hold onto a certain art form just because it sells more. For me, it’s about growth. Once I stop learning from something, I move on to something new. It’s like switching classes in school: you’ve done geography for years, now it’s time for physics. Experimenting like that builds confidence, too. I’ve made pieces that I love, that others love, and even pieces I know won’t resonate with everyone, but I still stand by them. Being self-taught has taught me that not everything needs to be understood right now. Some work makes sense later and that’s okay.

What does your creative process look like?

First of all, I sketch a lot. I’ve got a sketchbook right by my bed. There was a time I used to sketch every single night before sleeping. I’ve fallen off a bit, but I still try to do it as often as I can. The sketches are usually random, but it’s interesting how much sketching is like writing. Once I put something down on paper, it sticks in my mind. I don’t even need to carry the book around. So most of the time, what I paint starts in those sketchbooks. It’s like building a visual encyclopedia. When I see a blank canvas, I already have options;ideas I’ve saved, even unconsciously.

Then comes the painting, but also research. I dig into whatever theme I’m exploring. The titles matter. The pieces themselves, I think of them almost like logos. You know how a gear icon represents “settings” without needing to say it? I want my pieces to do that , to represent something specific, whether it’s a political shift, a climate issue, or just a moment of reflection. Every piece is meant to symbolize something real. That’s why I say my paintings are like logos, compact representations of bigger realities, now brought into physical space.

You’ve mentioned that painting becomes physical for you. What role does your body, mood, or energy play in how a piece turns out?

There was a time I felt like I needed to be in the right mood to paint, but now, I feel like I’ve evolved. I can paint in any situation. Mood still plays a role, not in whether or not I paint, but in what and how I paint. For example, when I’m happy, I might lean toward brighter or more playful pieces. If I’m feeling a bit off or clumsy, it shows in the strokes or the tone. So the mood doesn’t block the work, it just influences the direction. At this point, painting is something I do regardless of where I’m at emotionally. It’s become part of my rhythm. But yes, the body and energy definitely shape the outcome in subtle ways. They affect the approach, not the drive to create.

What does your studio look like?

My studio is a simple square room, paint-splattered floor, always a bit chaotic. I usually work on at least two pieces at the same time, one in front of me, one to the right. Behind me is a collection of finished works, and to the right is my paint cabinet. There’s a window on the left, and everywhere you look, there’s paint, brushes, pigments, tubes from different companies. I might have seven shades of blue alone, same color, different lives. It’s a whole world of pigment. Lately, I’ve also been using a few chemicals in my work, experimenting with translucency. So the space is part studio, part lab.

What makes it feel like home or helps you get into that creative zone?

What gets me into the zone is an unfinished painting. I cannot stand seeing something incomplete,it pulls me in immediately. That pressure to finish, to resolve, that’s what triggers the process. But what makes the studio feel like home is the mess. The scattered brushes, the paint on the floor, the smell of chemicals , all of it is like a footprint of me. If I left the studio and someone else walked in, they’d know someone lives here creatively. The way things are left behind, sometimes rushed, sometimes carefully placed, even that tells a story. When the paints are thrown around, you know I was in a hurry. When everything is placed back neatly, it means I was calm, more deliberate. The room reflects me, my mood, my pace, my energy. You can even see it in the brush strokes on the canvas. Were they quick or slow? Sharp or blurred? Everything leaves a story.

Working with materials like vinyl mesh opens up a lot metaphorically. What role doesmaterial play in shaping a message, for you?

This was actually my first time working with a material outside of canvas, and to me, canvas is basic. It doesn’t really shape the story; it’s just a surface. But vinyl mesh completely changes that. With mesh, the material is part of the message. It introduces light as a medium. The piece becomes interactive with its environment. How it looks depends on how light hits it, where it's placed, even the time of day. I wanted a piece that feels personalized and that changes from house to house, owner to owner. It’s also versatile in how it’s displayed: you can hang it on a wall, in front of a window, even suspend it in the middle of a room. It absorbs its surroundings like a living thing. You have to be present with it to really get it.

You’ve explored urban life, political unease, and social commentary in your work . What theme or question keeps resurfacing no matter how far you try to stray?

The one theme that keeps coming backis this: people are both terrible and good. There’s no problem with that. Maybe that’s just what it means to be human. I’ve been working on a show called casus belli, which means “an act of war.” While researching for it, I kept coming back to that same idea and how we’re always at war. Sometimes it’s personal, other times it’s political or religious. It could be tribes in one place, nations in another, race, class, workplace dynamics. We’re constantly either fighting for something or defending something.

And maybe that’s how we’ve evolved. Through conflict. Through the struggle for change, for survival, for progress. Even things we now see as positive often have dark origins. A lot of medical equipment used in hospitals today was developed during Nazi Germany. It was created to study bodies, to help soldiers fight better, to kill more effectively. But now, those same tools save lives. That contradiction really struck me. What’s bad for one person can be good for another.

Do you think artists have a responsibility to engage with political or social realities, or is that simply your personal calling?

Yes, I believe artists have a responsibility to engage with political and social realities. Before anything else, an artist is a thinker. You sit down, observe the world around you, and respond. Art isn’t just about beauty, it’s for reflection, for documentation, and for guidance. But today, we’re losing that. Capitalism is stripping the depth out of art, turning it into entertainment. The art market has started to define what art is, not the artist. That’s why you see things like bananas on walls being celebrated,not because of meaning, but because of market value.

When artists are forced to please audiences, collectors, or galleries just to survive, they stop creating from a place of truth. They become a mirror for others’ expectations. It’s the same thing happening in music, where people make songs for TikTok because that’s where the audience is. In that case, the audience becomes the artist, and the artist becomes the instrument. Real art requires digging deep, but many buyers don’t want to go there. Still, I think all artists; musicians, painters and photographers should reflect society. That’s how we document who we are.

How do you hope your work interacts with people? Do you want to move them, provoke them, or offer a mirror?

That’s not something I think I’m responsible for. I can create a painting, but how someone receives it is entirely up to them. I could share my perspective, but it might mean nothing to them, and honestly, I like it that way. It’s like going to the beach. We’re in the same place, but what I see isn’t what you see. You might love elephants, I might prefer lions, same space, different feelings. That’s nature. For me, that’s the most genuine way to live. Nothing is fully good or bad, right or wrong. It’s just a reflection of who you are and what you’ve been through. That shapes how you interpret what you’re seeing. If I tried to control how everyone receives my work, I’d be stripping away its depth.

As a creative in Nairobi, Kenya, what does it mean to you to be an artist in Nairobi? What nourishes and what frustrates you in this space?

Nairobi is cool. First, it’s affordable. I can afford a studio here. If I was in London, I probably wouldn’t be an artist. You can't easily get a studio there unless you're funded. There’s also a big creative scene here that inspires me. It’s diverse, and a lot of us are around the same age, which makes it feel like we’re growing together. I think the Nairobi art scene is different. It’s raw and real. It feels like no one has fully figured it out yet. But that’s also part of the frustration. There isn’t a strong ecosystem to support artists. Not many Kenyans are buying art. Personally, I’d say less than 10% of my sales have been in Kenya by Kenyans. We need more education and awareness around art. Our generation is more open to it, which gives me hope. But the people with money, the ones who could really support the scene, aren’t always interested. Some are, but not enough.

Contemporary African art is often reduced to a category. How do you negotiate identity and the expectations tied to being a Kenyan or African artist?

Personally, I don’t think art should have an identity or origin. I feel like that’s a fetish, especially when people label it “African art.” Most Africans aren’t buying art because it’s African. That label mainly exists for the West. It’s a slogan that feeds a fetish. Collectors on the continent don’t need that tag. They know who the artists are. They interact with them. I don’t have to sell you my work as “Kenyan” art, you already know where I’m from. Outside Africa, those labels might feel necessary, but I think they do more harm than good. It’s like “Made in China” or “Made in Italy”, those phrases carry certain assumptions. The same thing happens with African art, but art is too universal for those categories. It’s just stories. A story from Kenya doesn’t need a label to matter. It’s still a story that can speak to anyone, anywhere. We should stop giving artworks passports.

What outside of the visual arts inspires you?

It’s interesting, I actually don’t listen to music when I paint. I feel like it might influence me too much, and when I’m painting, I want to tap into something that’s purely me. So I avoid it. Outside of visual art, I’m really drawn to design. I collect a lot of design books; everything from industrial and hardware design to IT systems. I’m a graphic designer too, so I’m fascinated by how things are built and structured. I also find a lot of inspiration in nature. The way water flows, how wind moves, how animals live, everything in nature is connected and constantly adapting. But professionally, design is what excites me most.

How has your definition of art changed since you began?

It has changed a lot. When I started, it was mostly about beauty; something nice to hang in a house, something decorative. Then I got into the investment side and learned more about the art market. Now, I see art as all of that and more. For some, it's an investment and for others, it's about beauty, history, culture, or personal reflection. I’ve come to believe that art serves many purposes at once. It holds value, tells stories, and mirrors both ourselves and our societies.

What’s something you’ve learned about yourself through making art that has surprised you?

That one... I’m not sure. Maybe I’ve spent more time learning about the world than I’ve spent learning about myself. I’ll have to sit with that question.

How do you measure success as an artist?

There are so many ways to measure success. For me, it all comes down to impact. I think success looks different for everyone, but for me, it’s about how deeply my work can reach people. I imagine a Kenya or even a world, where people are confident in themselves and grounded in how they see life. If my art can contribute to that kind of awareness, where people better understand what really matters, that’s success. It’s also about growing appreciation for art in general. If more Kenyans, more Africans, begin to value not just painting but also music, film, any creative work with depth and meaning, that would be a huge win.

If art stopped being a profession or path for you, what would you still need to express, and how?

I’d probably just pivot into design. Or maybe head to the village and farm. I don’t think I’d feel pressure to express myself in any grand way, I’m just here to experience life too. In my own way, I’d still be observing and interpreting things around me. Even without a brush or a canvas, that instinct doesn’t disappear. Maybe I’d just be quiet about it. Or maybe I’d find another medium. But at the heart of it, I think I’d still be trying to make sense of life in the best way I can.