Coffee with Oibel1: On Labels, Legibility & the Politics of Controlled Expression
- Tallulah Patricia B
- Apr 12
- 4 min read
With AfroSwiss Love and Admiration, by Tallulah Patricia Bär
Zurich loves expression.
But it prefers it organized.
Spontaneity is fine — as long as someone has signed off. We dance, we design, we do Rundfunk.fm. We host block parties and art weeks, warehouse raves and curated interventions.
But when creativity spills over the frame — when it shows up uninvited, unframed, out of context — the city shifts.
Brows high. Eyes narrow. Tone flattens. The room goes quiet.
And I know that shift. I’ve felt it. It’s part of what drives me to pay attention — not just to what’s being created, but where, how, and by whom.
So when I sat down for coffee with Samora, aka Oibel1 (more about him here), I knew it wouldn’t be a conversation about “art.” It would be about building, and the conditions needed for his Art to exist. About permission. About how creative energy moves through this city — and where it gets stopped.
The Meaning of Naming
“They’ve called me urban, street, graffiti, contemporary,” Samora said. “I used to react. Now? I let them. But Afro-Swiss — that one I chose.”
And that, to me, was the pivot point of the conversation.
Afro-Swiss isn’t branding. It’s authorship. It’s an ontological statement — about belonging, self-definition, and identity as presence rather than reaction.
In a context that still hesitates to name race — or worse, claims it doesn’t matter — choosing that name is a cultural intervention.
The other tags? They came from outside. They were shortcuts.
Institutional language.
Marketed packaging.
Ways of making a complex practice legible — and sellable.
I know that tension. When you exist across worlds — linguistic, cultural, political — you become readable in fragments. Your wholeness becomes inconvenient.
But Samora doesn’t make himself smaller to fit the system’s field of vision. He keeps painting and creating anyway.
Support as Memory
“What does support look like to you?” I asked.
He paused. “It’s not money. It’s memory. It’s someone naming you in the room you didn’t even know existed. It’s sharing. It’s offering something without waiting to be asked.”
I’ve thought about that a lot since. Because in cities like Zurich — polished, high-functioning, quietly competitive — support often becomes symbolic. You get the applause after the gallery signs you. The repost after the press release.
But what about before? When the thing is still forming? When the artist is still building?
Samora wasn’t lamenting. He was clarifying.
Support isn’t performance. It’s presence. And presence — real presence — is rare.
Collaboration Is Infrastructure
“Do you prefer building solo or working with others?” I asked.
“Both,” he said, quickly. “Why not both?”
For Samora, collaboration isn’t a compromise. It’s an architecture. A way of making something larger than what the system makes possible on your own.
I know this logic. I build through collaboration too, because I enjoy complexity. I believe in the beautiful growth process that happens when ideas, disciplines, generations, and cultures are allowed to stretch across space. Across structure.
But collaboration needs room. And trust. And conditions.
On Space That Doesn’t Flatten
That’s why where this conversation took place matters. We were sitting inside The Artistic, a workspace by HeadsQuarter that has become, for me, something of a thinking ground.
It’s a space that doesn’t shout “creativity.” It doesn’t demand in-your-face branding. It allows for breath. It holds contradictions. And it lets them stay.
I've been working from there more and more — not just because it's flexible, but because it doesn’t try to flatten any part of me. I don’t feel the need to edit myself before speaking and feel more encouraged to inquire, express and share. Neither have I felt the need to explain my cross- disciplinary working range. Or distill my complexity into something marketable.
As someone who writes, curates, builds, and connects — across continents and concepts — such a space is rare.
And necessary.
Aesthetics as Energy
The Greeks understood aesthetics not just as visual style, but as aisthesis — perception. Sensory experience. The capacity to feel, to respond, and to be moved.
But modern design often forgets this. It mistakes aesthetics for minimalism. For clarity that erases rather than reveals.
“I get it,” Samora said, “but minimalism doesn’t hold me.”
Zurich’s preferred aesthetic — clean, quiet, composed — speaks a language of control. It says: don’t overwhelm. Don’t deviate. Stay legible.
But Samora carries joy as design. History as texture. Color as memory. His backpack tells more truth than most museums. His practice doesn’t need approval to exist. It already does.
And that’s the power of creative energy — it moves with or without permission.
What Kind of City Do We Want to Be?
Art Basel is coming. Zurich Art Weekend will perform its cosmopolitanism.
But I keep returning to this coffee.
Unstaged.
Uncaptioned.
Unfiltered.
A creative exchange between two people who’ve both navigated systems that prefer categories over contradictions.
So what kind of city are we building?
One that remembers artists after they’re institutionalized? Or one that makes space before they’re commodified?
Samora isn’t asking for a seat at the table. He’s already building elsewhere — in the margins, in the movement, in the memory of those who’ve paid attention.
The question is: are we ready to follow those who lead quietly?
And will we build more spaces — physical, intellectual, relational — that let creative energy move as it is, rather than what we’ve decided it should be?
About Oibel1
Samora Bazarrabusa, known artistically as Oibel1, is a Zurich-born visual artist with over two decades of creative evolution. Rooted in graffiti and self-taught through relentless experimentation, his work bridges vibrant color, bold linework, and emotional resonance. From painting city walls in Kampala to lighting up Times Square with digital art, Samora’s practice spans mediums, continents, and communities.
He paints what he feels — not for approval, but for connecti
on. His art is a call to joy, self-inquiry, and cultural reflection.
Whether mentoring kids, launching large-scale public installations, or collaborating with global brands, one thing remains constant:
His mission is to spread love — loudly, colorfully, and without compromise.
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