A room divider unlike any other. Carved from local iroko wood, the screen looks solid from the front, but when you move to the side, you realize thousands of micro-slits have been cut in a specific rhythm, allowing air to pass through while blocking light. It was a response to rising temperatures in urban Lagos, solving a problem no air conditioner could: passive cooling.
Critics often compare Maza’s visual language to that of [e.g., José Sabogal, Oswaldo Guayasamín, or contemporary muralists like Blu]. Unlike the overtly political muralism of the 20th century, Maza’s approach is more lyrical and ecological, using dreamlike juxtapositions to critique extractivism, patriarchy, and cultural erasure. g.b maza
Recurring motifs include broken looms (representing lost weaving traditions), floating eyes (ancestral surveillance), and rooted staircases (spiritual ascension). A room divider unlike any other
If you were to walk into a gallery showing G.B Maza’s work, you would immediately notice the tension. On one hand, you see severe, concrete-like monoliths—massive tables and structural shelving units that look carved from a single block of earth. On the other hand, draped across these harsh surfaces, you find the softest, most intricate textiles known as Kuba and Raffia reimagined. The color palette is distinctly terrestrial: deep ochres,
Maza’s signature is the "Hard/Soft Dichotomy."
The color palette is distinctly terrestrial: deep ochres, charcoal blacks, raw umber, and the occasional shock of indigo blue. There are no bright plastics or glossy lacquers. An object by G.B Maza is meant to age, to crack slightly, to patina.
Maza divides their time between [urban center] and a rural studio in [province/department]. They are an advocate for the revitalization of [Indigenous language – e.g., Quechua or Mapudungun] and regularly leads free mural workshops for youth.