The Dogon Nommo:

Of the Flesh and the Spirit and All that comes between
Ogan Gurel
1 November 1990

William Blake once wrote that the distinction between body and soul is false. Yet,

throughout the long history and varied cultures of mankind, the evidence of his ideas, his

religions and his struggles tends to point otherwise; there would seem to be a duality to

being human. This duality is something of the flesh or spirit, something of the animal or

God, something irrational or rational. Whatever it is, it has happily and unhappily

touched many.

The theology of Flesh and Spirit takes its simplest and most cogent form in the

writings of St. Paul. In his Epistles to the Romans 7:14-17, he forms this view of

mankind:

For we know that the law is spiritual: but I am carnal, sold under sin.

For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.

If then I do that which I would not, I consent unto the law that it is good.

Now then it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.

There are inherent contradictions in St. Paul's view; the "I" that he describes is a

curiously disconnected and shifting one. Initially this "I" is carnal, separate from the

spiritual law, later becoming an "I" that does what it would not; thus, an element of the

spiritual law infuses the carnal "I". Finally, sin -- carnal sin -- becomes only a part,

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dwelling as it were, within the "I". What was once carnal has become spiritual. St. Paul's

image of man in its inconsistency is unsatisfying yet in this way he creates a man who

cannot answer the question of his own duality but rather needs external salvation. For St.

Paul, man's duality is real and necessarily disjoint.

Apart from its Christian relevance, the Pauline distinction is universally valuable for

it provides a framework for understanding this duality. Loosely speaking, the realm of

"Spirit" would encompass the attributes of reason, morality, imagination, and what might

be termed the inspired emotions of compassion, love and courage. While not necessarily

or exclusively religious, rational, or human, these attributes represent in the aggregate the

Pauline sense of the higher Spirit.

But, as St. Paul noted, to be human is not only to be a disembodied Spirit but also to

have Flesh. Biological commonsense tells us that we inhabit a living body with animal

characteristics: we eat, breathe, sleep and have other such needs. Moreover, various

passions such as rage, lust and fear are also part of the Flesh. We share these passions to

some extent with the animals but they also have their own uniquely human

manifestations.

The Dogon wooden sculpture from Mali entitled "Male figure" in the Metropolitan is

a powerfully abstract vision of this duality. As with much other African art the meaning

can be obscure for those unaware of the underlying belief system. But also, as Picasso and

other artists in search of the abstract saw, African art demonstrates a universality of

human meaning that cuts across the encumbrances of culture. This expressionless Dogon

"male figure" standing curiously with slightly bent knees and arms stretched to the sky

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speaks to us as much as it does to the Dogon people with their rich and particular

cosmogony.

The first impression of the sculpture is that of a man peculiarly uncomfortable. With

his thighs stressed by the angle of his knees, his shoulders compressed by the upraised

arms, this man is not at ease. Curiously, the bearded face gives no hint of discomfort.

Although these figures were made to honor the dead, the lack of detail, blank expression

and stylized anatomy makes this sculpture less of an individual portrait than an abstract

image of man -- a universal human personality. For most Dogon art the human images

were meant to depict Nommo --the first ancestral man - - and a closer examination of this

sculpture may yield clues to his symbolized essence.

We are first struck by the rigidly upraised arms; they seem part held up, part pulled

up. Only one arm remains intact with its unnaturally large hand but one can envision to

other as being similar. Art historians have variously interpreted this position as a prayer

ritual, an appeal for rain or a "gesture of communion between earth and sky." While the

meaning may be controversial what is surely definite is the contrast of these arms with the

lower part of the body -- the legs. The arms are thin, completely straight and dominated

by the hands while the legs are more fleshy, awkwardly bent and meld with the ground

below. Viewed in this context, these outstretched arms embody those aspects of man --

his marvelous tool-making hands, his sense of the straight, the true, the right and his

yearning for what is above -- that in essence embrace his cultural, moral and spiritual

being.

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 His head lends even deeper meaning to this idea. It is covered by a tightly fitting

cap: it is a formal, refined head. His face is expressionless: it is a timeless head. He is

bearded -- a Dogon symbol of elderly experience: it is a wise head. He looks straight

ahead, not skyward: it is a humble head. And his long and thin neck is like a post: it

doesn't really hold the head but rather projects it skyward. The overall sense of his

physiognomy is that of a man calm, confident and able to control his surroundings, but in

addition we get the feeling of curiosity, slight wonderment and an engagement with these

same surroundings. In sum, we have here an artistic interpretation of the Pauline Spirit

although the abstraction here is even more real, more rarefied and in this way devoid of

good or evil.

The lower part of the sculpture stands clearly in is contrast. The legs are opposite,

feature for feature, to the arms: they are short, fleshy and bent; they reach not for the

heavens but rather secure man to the earth below. What is particularly striking here (and

in contrast to the arms) is the natural rendering of the powerful musculature. Hanging

between the legs, prominently and naturalistically represented, is the man's penis; it

points down. The penis from which the needs and desires are expressed becomes a pivot

of some sorts for the legs: a pivot that leads inexorably down back to earth. The Dogon

sculpture thus artistically captures that other part of man: the Pauline sentiment of the

Flesh. But is this tensed Nommo as he is stretched between two forces a unified man?

Or is he alienated man?

Who is this alienated man, modern man? For many critics, Kafka's writings bring us

a powerful awareness of modern man and modern alienation. His Metamorphosis is the

story of a traveling salesman Gregor who wakes up one morning transformed into a

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monstrous vermin. He is not merely an animal but an animal/man who is radically split

between body and soul; all which lies between has been stripped away. Gregor, the

vermin, is Kafka's literary device in which the self becomes is completely torn.

Gregor, is a strange sort of animal: he thinks in the highest sort of way, open-minded,

clear and rational; he is greater in spirit than Gregor, the human. Likewise, the animal's

body becomes a more significant part of his daily existence; he is greater in flesh than

Gregor, the human. Kafka acutely develops this dichotomy in the early scenes: here lies

Gregor, his body resistant, trying to get out of bed.

[he] felt fine, with the exception of his drowsiness, which was really

unnecessary after sleeping so late...

His drowsiness is a curious sort of drowsiness: his body is drowsy, his mind is not.

The vermin's mind is clear and detached; the body does not affect it's thought. Deciding

finally to emerge from the bed, he compels the body to action; simple enough but that:

He would have needed hands and arms to lift himself up, but instead of that he

had only his numerous little legs, which were in every kind of perpetual motion and

which, besides, he could not control.

Likewise the vermin's thought cannot influence the detached body --the gulf between

the mind and body is complete. As his disembodiment becomes depressingly apparent he

gazes out the window but finds "little confidence and cheer to be gotten...", symbolically

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searching for salvation of the sort St. Paul promised. Frustrated, he hopes for "the return

of things to the way they really and naturally were."

So here lies Gregor: modern man, alienated to the core -- a nonexistent core. The

radically bifurcated Gregor lives on, but despite all his ranging thoughts, despite his

bodily existence, he has no personality and no connectedness with society; his utter and

complete alienation leads inexorably to his extinction. Gregor, lacking unity, dies an

insignificant death, without denouement and thus without really living.

Can we reunify Kafka's modern man? And what shall become of the Dogon

Nommo, torn between earth and sky? Reaching early in philosophy we read of Plato's

simplistic but unified view of dualistic man. Here in the Phaedrus dialogue, Socrates

describes him as a pair of horses driven by a single charioteer. And of the two horses,

"one of them is noble and handsome and of good breeding, while the other is the very

opposite"; the charioteer -- pilot of the soul -- is that which embodies reason and guides

these higher and lower aspects of man. A picturesque view, but little more than an empty

idealization of the unified self.

Similar to Plato, but more comprehensive in view is Freud's topographical

conception of the mind. Here id the represents the lower, more primitive aspects of

human behavior while the super-ego embodies the higher nature of man. Like the

charioteer, juxtaposed between these two is the ego. However, because of their

developmental and evolutionary derivation, these three entities are more than just

semantic conventions. They are not absolute concepts as delivered by Scripture or other

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such revelation. Rather, they are relative, Darwinian concepts in which the ego and

super-ego are ontogenetically derived while the id is phylogenetically derived.

The ego, enriched by all the experiences of life becomes the single unity that binds

the two opposing forces of id and super-ego. But the ego ultimately arises from the id as

"that part of the id which has been modified by the direct influence of the external world."

For Freud then, everything ultimately derives from the id; an unsatisfactory view of man

whose fulfillment then necessarily comes from the psychoanalysis of the id. As with St.

Paul, Freud's view of man becomes essential to his system of ultimate understanding and

"salvation."

Consider again the Dogon Nommo. His core essence has been established: the spirit

reaching for the sky and the flesh rooted in the earth. Yet the question remains, how shall

the Nommo be unified? The Dogon sculptures were meant to honor the dead;

periodically they were brought out to participate in rituals in which the figures were

covered by sacrificial liquids such as the blood of chickens, goats, and sheep; various

plant and fruit juices; millet porridge, and millet flour made from the seeds of the baobab

and yullo trees, and various mixtures of charcoal, burned herbs and tree oils. In short, the

"stuff of life" which the Dogon called nyama, a vital force essential to a person's physical

and mental life. The figure here lacks such a sacrificial coating but ordinarily after

repeated rituals, the sculptures would become heavily encrusted with the sacrificial

materials, completely covering and making faint their underlying form.

The ritual serves two purposes. First, by honoring and remembering these past

ancestors the collective history of the community is revived. Second, the pouring of the

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life- giving nyama on each of the statues represents the individual history of experiences,

struggles, sufferings, and joys that envelops a life. Underneath these full and encrusted

layers of nyama lies an inner, absolute, and timeless essence -- the spirit and the flesh.

Later in the story of Gregor, his sister and mother begin to clear out his room.

Disconsolately, Gregor reflects upon the prospect of being left to live amongst four bare

walls:

Had he really wanted to have his warm room,

comfortably fitted with furniture that had

always been in the family, changed into a cave,

in which, of course, he would be able to crawl

around unhampered in all directions but at the

cost of simultaneously, rapidly, and totally

forgetting his human past?

Kafka's message goes beyond a simple critique of bourgeois materialism. The point

here is more profound. Rather, for Kafka, as it was for the Dogon people, our individual

and collective histories are what constitute the fullness of human existence. And without

a sense of this history, we become less than human and more like Gregor the modern,

alienated vermin.

"Every work of art is the child of its age," Kandinsky tells us. Likewise, an

individual work of art becomes fashioned from the artist's perceptions and experiences --

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his past history. There is no art completely stripped of this collective and individual

context; otherwise, it ceases to have any meaning. And stripped of all our historical

context we likewise cease to have any meaning. For the Dogon people, the sacrificial

rituals gave their human images historical meaning; the blood, foods and liquids represent

the history of a life lived. But this happy, unhappy history is built upon a spirit that

remembers the past and envisions the future as well as the flesh that lives in the present;

without either the history that binds us all is impossible.

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