Oliver is not overly concerned with self-promotion. He is often mistaken and appears to revel in that space. With or without intermediaries, the point doesn't always seem to get across to his intended audience. All this comes as little surprise. I see him as a vessel for communicating a network of ever-changing ideas, and those ideas, varied and mercurial, permeate the work.

He inhales the world around him with little prejudice, and his exhale unearths new grounds of being and being with others. Oliver jumps off the top rope, splashing any distinction between an art school-produced self-conscious artist that cringes at marketing oneself and an avid beer, doggies and WWE amuser. It is a fitting play, particularly as the “art world” becomes more WWE and the latter becomes a more astute analogy for the world we inhabit.

His inner world becomes incarnate, something that words fail to grasp. It is through this process that he comes into communion with others. 

What he produces, although an extension of him, remains a mystery. He can't determine where it comes from or where it is headed. To talk about it as we have done here would be to profane the entire thing.

Leon Kalumba 

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