Arts on Sunday

Training in the arts and its impact on the various disciplines

Being Guyanese                                                                   Being Guyanese they judge me on the colour of my skin,  For who’s to say, they might have liked me if I were paler, you know – with just a little less melanin. 

A scene from “Naya Zamana 23: Zindagi Express” (Photo from Naya Zamana Facebook page)
A scene from “Naya Zamana 23: Zindagi Express” (Photo from Naya Zamana Facebook page)

‘Zindagi Express’ was a dance theatre production worth remembering

The annual dance theatre production Naya Zamana has grown to become a terrific theatrical experience and a significant social one, based on the occasion, the statements and what the performance wants to say to its audience.

Eric Roach

On Eric Roach, freedom, culture and traditions

Verse in August                                                 (For Frank Collymore) knock drum draw bow on fiddle strings let rhythm jump and catgut screech let all time jig a kalinda and reel these august freedom days let dead bones rise and dance their own bongos who’ll dance my death farewell?

Courtney Douglas’ ‘My First Teacher’ won the Drawing
category. (Terrence Thompson photo)

Signs of an exciting evolution in national visual arts competition

By Alim Hosein The awards ceremony for the 2019 Guyana Visual Arts Com-petition was held at the National Cultural Centre on Thursday June 27, and the Guyana Visual Arts Exhibition was officially launched later the same evening by Minister of Social Cohesion George Norton at the National Gallery of Art.

Wole Soyinka

In praise of African oral and written literature … and palm wine

                                To Palm Wine                                                    Alimotu of the gourd Lamihun in the fibrous clump Dawn it is that heralds your approach When evening comes, the drum crooks taps Taps, taps in gladness Mistress of tuppence only, yet Chased the millionaire into the forest.

New Day

not hands                                                                        like mine these Carib altars knew: nameless and quite forgotten are the gods; and mute, mute and alone, their silent people spend a ring of vacant days, not like more human years, as aged and brown their rivers flow away.

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