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O n a sweltering morning in October of 2001, the inhabitants of Bessengue, one of the more difficult neighborhoods of Douala, found two women's bodies floating in a swamp. Both were charred beyond recognition. The reaction was violent. As the corpses' skin began to fall away in the fetid water, a crowd gathered , demanding that the bodies be removed. The question of removal, however, was not simple. It was not simple because the disposal of corpses found on Douala streets is a complicated and agonizingly long matter and it was not simple, either, because the two women were not "ordinary" people . Though the likeness was appallingly true, these were, it turned out, facsimilies: full-body casts of adult women treated to look as if they had been caught in a terrible fire. It took some time to establish this and, even then, parts of the crowd were not convinced. Talk of evil doings—witchcraft of some kind—was evoked, not least because one of the women turned out to have a ram's head rather than a human face. No one wanted to touch the bodies. In time, it was established that this was an art installation: the work of a sculptor named Malam. "Malam" is a pseudonym. The artist, in his early forties, was born Isaac Essoua Essoua. The nickname "Malam" ("wise man" or "teacher" in the Hausa language) was given to him by his family (as a child, he was notorious for wanting to know everything) and, in his professional life, it stuck, taking on a particular meaning for the inhabitants of Makea, arguably Douala's toughest quarter, where his studio was located. The name stuck, it seems, because it spoke to what many saw as esoteric practices characteristic of the sculptor's work—forms of alchemy in which he engaged to treat and transform his pieces, practices deemed alarming by some and intriguing by most. The transformative processes in which Malam engages to create his works of art involve a physically and spiritually charged substance: fire. He casts the naked bodies of men and, mostly, women (itself a complicated matter in the very conservative city that is Douala) in a mixture of plaster and nylon thread , which he then coats in resin and sets alight. Occasionally, he substitutes plastic for plaster , using the diminutive body parts of dolls, which he also burns, resulting in extraordinarily realistic and troubling objects: sculptures that incorporate what appear to be the charred hands, arms, or feet of babies. As one might expect, the types of auto-da-fe in which Malam engages to create his pieces—in particular his larger, full-body casts—take place outside and tend to call attention to themselves. As forms and textures morph in a mix of crackling, melting and searing, the act of burning becomes an integral part of the object. The result is both an oeuvre d'art—a finished product once the burning is done—and a performance piece. As the women in the swamp suggest, however, "finished product" is a relative term. Commonly, the work is expected to undergo further changes (in the case of the women, decomposition as the casts became waterlogged). Though this is not always the case, typically the ephemeral nature of the work is a key component of its identity and meaning. This is most clearly the case when the act of burning is foregrounded: when it trumps the piece itself. This occurred in 2003, in the context of a neighborhood-wide art installation entitled "Scenographies Urbaines," which brought together dozens of artists from around the world in another very difficult part of Douala, Ngangue. ("Scenographies Urbaines" was a joint venture between two artists' collectives, one—Cercle Kapsiki—based in Douala, the other—called ScUr&°k—located in France.) The venture lasted three weeks and included over fifty artworks, installations, and performances, most of which, despite being quite unconventional, were well received by the quarter's inhabitants.1 One installation , however, went over very badly. It was a work by Malam. A full-sized body cast of a man was strung up, as if lynched, and set on fire. Like many of the works in the extended show, the...

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