Between Two Worlds: Sahata’s Quest for Connection and Self-Expression

Born in Ghent to an Ivorian mother and a West Flemish father, Sahata’s work reflects her unique background. Her paintings, which—as she puts it—coincidentally align with the vision of the Transcendental Painters, explore themes of light, nature, and femininity. Her art is a personal quest for depth, freedom, and connection between tradition and self-expression.

I was born in Ghent and grew up in De Pinte. My mother was born and raised in Ivory Coast, and my father is from West Flanders. As a child, I wasn’t aware of my mixed background until other children pointed it out. Feeling different was difficult at times. Today, I see my heritage as a cultural enrichment that brings only positive aspects to my life.

At home, there were various artworks my mother had brought from her village: masks, paintings, batik, and woodcarvings. My father also had a beautiful collection of abstract and surrealist paintings and works on paper. While my paintings aren’t directly based on Ivorian or African art, their spirit is deeply woven into my work, mixed with the abstract influences from my father’s side. I always observed both collections growing up, fascinated by their compositions, colors, and suggestive figures.

Your approach to landscape as a matter of interiority is striking. In De Verre Horizon (a painting depicting a room with what appear to be murals, mirrors, or portals—or perhaps all three), you invoke the collapse of distance as a matter of imagination, writing: “There is always a way to go further.”

Visualizations of portals have always fascinated me, along with the iconography of space and spiritual beings. What intrigues me most is the mystique of the unknown. When I translate this inspiration into art, it emerges as the idea of a double entry, exit, or passageway. I ask myself: “How can I take the viewer’s eye further and give this flat surface depth?”

Like a portal, I want my compositions to transcend what a two-dimensional surface typically allows. I often use frames and color to achieve this. This aspect of my work is still developing but slowly surfacing. You can see it in De Verre Horizon, as well as in A Forming Memory and Verheven.

De Verre Horizon was created during a period of emotional and general transition in my life. Various paths lay open, and it was difficult to choose which direction was best. The different portals serve as a reminder that there’s always a way to go further. You just have to find the right one. And if that one doesn’t meet expectations, there are plenty more to choose from. In the end, you reach the far-off horizon: a peaceful, beautiful place where you belong.

Can you elaborate on the relationship between image and imagination in your work?

Most of my works emerge from imagination. Even when based on reality, I reduce them to forms, colors, or suggestions of that reality. I find it more interesting when a painting requires observation before understanding it. That “Aha! So that’s what it is!” moment is what I love about modern art. It’s also stimulating to hear interpretations from others that I’d never have considered myself.

My paintings often start as sketches, rarely made with a plan. I begin with a few lines, a shape, or a color, and let the image emerge spontaneously, mostly organic forms or vague interpretations of my dreams. They’re very spontaneous, and I try to capture that same feeling in my paintings. As Frank Zappa said, “The imaginary guitar notes and imaginary vocals exist only in the imagination of the imaginer” (from Watermelon on Easter Hay). In a way, you could see the colors in a painting as guitar notes and the brushstrokes as vocals, painted by the imagination. It’s how I transport my inner world onto the canvas. You could say reality is what’s perceivable, and by painting my inner reality, I manifest it. Giving the result a spiritual dimension too.

Your works Happy Birthday and There She Comes, The Comet personify celestial bodies as feminine. How does this fit into your cosmology as an artist?

We say mother earth, mother nature; we perceive the moon as feminine, and the cycle of life originates in the womb of pregnant women. So, I see these aspects of our world and cosmos as inherently feminine. I celebrate women in all forms of femininity. In my paintings, I depict them in nature, in their essence; like the feminine forms in Happy Birthday or the buttocks in Cheeky Valley and Cheeky Desert Sun, which represent landscapes. They function as portals drawing the viewer into the vibrancy of the feminine.

I’m fascinated by space. Before studying Art and Archaeology, I considered astrophysics. Stars, comets, suns, and even black holes are so beautiful—you could see them as part of the divine feminine. A simpler answer is that, as a woman, I tend to paint from my own perspective and reflect myself in my work, which is why they often have a feminine quality.

Thinking of She, the Comet, what role does luminosity play in your practice?

Light and luminosity are essential to my work. In daily life, I’m often fascinated by shadows, sun reflections, or interesting light play. I always seek ways to brighten my paintings—they almost don’t feel complete without a light source. I need my work to be warm and glowing.

What informs the relationship between figures and landscape in your work?

I feel most at home when surrounded by nature, whole and alive. In Belgium, especially Flanders, that’s not always available. I create what I long for, which is why nature plays such a central role in my visual language. Combining imaginary figures and forms with landscapes and light makes the work far more engaging. There are endless possibilities to explore landscapes with organic forms, and I want to discover as many as I can.

In I Can’t Contain Myself, the central form, breaking out of its bounding composition, seems to take on the role of the more recognizable figures in works like The Way of Light and Souls Colliding.

Those two works don’t necessarily share a direct connection with I Can’t Contain Myself. I drew many of these stylized figures representing myself and the people around me. Only a few made it to the canvas. They depict specific moments or events from my life, especially from early 2025.

Meanwhile, I Can’t Contain Myself captures a feeling that’s always present within me, like a brooding presence. It’s more a state of mind than an event, unlike the other two works.

Can you talk about this work? Does it precede the more figurative pair chronologically?

In my earlier works, I often drew or painted forms contained within frames. Maybe it was subconsciously a way to fit into a certain narrative. Over time, I realized I can’t contain myself—literally. A frame can’t hold a composition, just as it can’t hold a person. That’s why there’s this dynamic form breaking through a barrier, a symbol of liberation and searching beyond the limits. This was my first painting of 2026. As I’ve said before, my paintings serve as a form of manifestation. Here, it’s an attempt to no longer be contained. New year, new me?

You also produce jewelry and write. Can you talk about how these practices inform your paintings, or vice versa?

I wouldn’t say jewelry has a direct impact on my art or writing. It’s something I enjoy. It calms me when I’m in a creative mood. For example, I make my own bayas (waist beads), which carry a spiritual meaning that also appears in my art, but from a different angle.

Writing is another story. As a child, I made a lot of comic strips, which gradually evolved into text-based stories. I’m currently working on a book I plan to illustrate, so there’s a symbiosis between my art and writing. I also enjoy poetry as an outlet. Sometimes, my poems inspire visuals, or vice versa. For now, visual arts remain my primary practice—the one I feel most comfortable sharing with the world.

You’re currently studying Art History and Archaeology at Vrije Universiteit Brussel. What are your areas of interest/specialization?

Yes, I’m in the final year of my master’s in Art History and Archaeology—almost there! 

My focus is on non-Western modern and contemporary art (19th–20th century to present). The transition from historical to modern art fascinates me. Artists broke free from conventions, incorporating personal experiences and abstract compositions while rejecting academic realism. Individuality emerged, yet it was also a collective phenomenon—a connected spirit. This duality intrigues me, especially in non-Western art, where layers of decolonial and cultural history contribute to understanding artistic practices of that era.

You mentioned underrepresented, non-Western artists. Who should we be looking at now, historically and in the present?

Over the past three years, I’ve focused on Asian and African movements, artists, and art forms in relation to decolonialism and reclaiming identity through art and materiality.

My master’s thesis is on the Vohou-Vohou movement in Ivory Coast—a post-independence (1970s) drive to forge a new Ivorian identity. Artists reclaimed local materials (shells, pigments, wood, leather) in abstract collages or figurative paintings. Pioneers like Theodore Koudougnon (1951) and Youssouf Bath (1949) blended tradition with abstraction. This movement still inspires contemporary African artists today.

Another fascinating medium is Vietnamese Sơn Mài (lacquer painting), which evolved from applied arts under French colonization into a national treasure. Post-independence, artists like Trương Tân (1963)—a multidisciplinary queer artist—and Phi Phi Oanh (1979) pushed its boundaries, dissolving lacquer into microscopic projections.

These examples are worth exploring, but they’re hard to find online or in libraries without deep research. That highlights how much work remains in documenting non-Western art history.

You don’t have formal artistic training. How did you pick up painting? How do you see yourself evolving as an artist? How do your studies fit into this process?

As a child, I was always drawing, doodling, and making little creations—more as a way to pass time than a hobby. At 12, my parents enrolled me in Kade Art School in Deinze. What I loved about Kade was its lack of assignments; it was a space for pure creative expression. I went until my final year of high school but rarely practiced art outside of class.

During COVID, I started taking art more seriously and tried painting. Oersprong was my first “real” painting. From there, I began working consistently with oil paint, gradually refining my techniques. Comparing Oersprong to my latest works, the difference in technique, paint quality, and finish is striking. It’s amazing to see how far my art has come in just a few years. My studies have helped me improve long-term quality—like learning to prepare my own gesso grounds or layer paint properly.

You learn by doing, and I feel like I still have so much to discover. Before 2025, I might have made three paintings a year. Since then, I’ve had a creative surge and been far more productive. I’m curious to see where 2026 and beyond will take me. There’s still a long journey ahead, and I’m only a few steps in.

Your work refers to Dadaism and Surrealism. Where do you find your inspiration, and which artists have guided you?

I see how my work could be called Dadaist or Surrealist, but I don’t align with a specific movement. Their philosophies don’t fully resonate with my approach. My paintings exist somewhere between dreams, bizarre forms, and imagery—closer to Surrealism, if I had to choose.

It’s hard to name artists who directly inspired my style. Most of my inspiration comes from Pinterest and aesthetic Instagram pages—mood boards and anonymous artworks rather than specific artists. It’s a mix of influences I’ve encountered, combined with the art I grew up with at home.

I recently discovered the Transcendental Painting Group (1938–1942). Their celestial, light-focused works speak to me spiritually. Newer Transcendental Painters elevate this further, experimenting with color and suggestive landscapes. I particularly admire Zoe McGuire (1996), whose work I’ve followed for years—even before I knew about the movement.

Interview: Expo Working Group - Images: Katrien Schuermans