Michael Owino
Michael Owino – Multidisciplinary Artist, Author, Musician, and Sculptor
Michael Owino is a Danish-Tanzanian multidisciplinary artist whose work spans painting, literature, sculpture, mixed media, and music. With a deep sensitivity to form, narrative, and psychological nuance, he has established a powerful presence across multiple creative fields. His artistic expression is united by a consistent thematic core: the human condition, intimacy, memory, secrecy, and the unseen emotional forces beneath appearances.
Michael’s practice is guided by a fundamental principle: I build from the inside out. Whether painting a fragmented image, sculpting a moment of closeness, or crafting a complex literary character, everything begins with emotional truth. His acclaimed novel series, The Tennis Club, unfolds within elite social circles, but reveals the internal fractures of status, shame, and identity. The series has been widely praised for its psychological depth and cinematic precision.
In 2025, Michael received three major international honors: the Leonardo Da Vinci – The Universal Artist Award in Milan, Artist of the Year in Florence, and the Premier Artis Prize in Madrid. These accolades recognized not only his individual accomplishments across disciplines, but the integrity and cohesion of a singular artistic vision – one that seamlessly weaves together language, image, sound, and form.
His visual art, often rooted in mixed media and sculptural work, captures fleeting moments of human connection – particularly love, transition, and the beauty of imperfection. He sees his visual and literary practices as deeply interconnected. In sculpture, themes like love and memory are conveyed physically; in literature, they become inner landscapes of conflict, longing, and complexity.
Michael’s background – both Danish and Tanzanian – shapes his nuanced understanding of belonging, otherness, and dual identity. These themes surface subtly throughout his work, as emotional undercurrents that resonate across borders and cultures. He draws inspiration from both classical and contemporary traditions: from the stream-of-consciousness of Virginia Woolf to the cool detachment of Bret Easton Ellis; from the raw emotionality of sculpture to the atmospheric tension of cinema.
He lives and works in Copenhagen, where his apartment doubles as a writing studio and atelier. Surrounded by books, canvases, and instruments, he moves fluidly between disciplines – sketching a painting one hour, refining a manuscript the next. This closeness to his tools fosters an artistic intensity that is mirrored in the concentrated tone of his work.
For Michael Owino, artistic identity is not defined by medium, but by intent. He does not separate his roles as painter, author, musician, or sculptor – they are all facets of the same inner drive: to reveal what lies beneath the surface. His works have been described as “psychologically razor-sharp,” “visually arresting,” and “deeply human.” With each piece, whether written or visual, Michael seeks not simply to impress – but to resonate.
Michael, your origin story as Denmark’s so-called first “rainbow child” is deeply interwoven with themes of courage, visibility, and social transformation. How has this formative identity influenced not just the content of your work but the way you see the role of the artist in society today?
I was born into a story the world hadn’t fully written yet. A Danish–Tanzanian adoptee, raised by a father who later married a man—at a time when most countries hadn’t even imagined such a reality. Denmark became the first country in the world to recognize same-sex unions, and my father was among the very first to stand proudly in that light.
That act of courage—the quiet radicalism of love—became the soil I was planted in. I grew up not just surrounded by difference, but rooted in it. I’m deeply proud of my father’s bravery, and of coming from a country that was bold enough to choose empathy over fear.
This background didn’t just shape me—it rewired my emotional DNA. As an artist, it has made me fluent in complexity, in nuance, in the subtle art of understanding others. Tolerance, for me, is not a principle—it’s a muscle I’ve trained since birth. That’s what gives my work depth and resonance: it carries many worlds in one form.
You often speak of invisible bonds and intergenerational love, a poetic yet complex terrain. How do you approach visually articulating emotions and relationships that are, by nature, intangible or unspoken?
Empathy is the through-line of everything I create. Invisible bonds—between parent and child, between generations, between those we’ve lost and those who remain—are what I sculpt. Not literally, but emotionally. I shape the tension between closeness and distance, love and memory. These unspoken energies often say more than words ever could. That’s what I want people to feel in my work: the weight of the unsaid, the warmth of the unseen.
Much of your recent work seems to reject overt narration in favor of silent yet powerful stories. In an age of information overload and relentless messaging, why have you chosen silence and ambiguity as tools for emotional communication?
There’s so much shouting in the world. I choose to whisper. Silence is not emptiness—it’s space for the viewer to arrive. Growing up surrounded by social complexity, ambiguity became my native language. In my work, silence acts like a mirror. It doesn’t dictate; it invites. And in that invitation, people often discover their own tenderness
Your practice spans multiple disciplines, including music, literature, and visual art. In what ways do these seemingly distinct creative languages intersect in your current artistic output, and how do you know which medium a story demands?
I live between disciplines because I’ve always lived between worlds. Sculpture, painting, installation, sound, design—they’re all dialects of the same emotional language. When a story wants to be told, it tells me how. Sometimes it’s heavy like metal. Sometimes it floats like pigment. Sometimes it hums like melody. I listen, then I build.
You’ve spoken of creating expressions that don’t yet exist but evoke calm and reassurance. Could you elaborate on this paradox—the creation of something unfamiliar that still feels deeply known?
There’s a kind of beauty that feels familiar even if you’ve never seen it before. That’s the space I work in. I want my pieces to feel like emotional déjà vu—as if they were part of your memory before you even encountered them. That sensation—recognizing the new as if it were old—is the paradox I chase.
Many of your pieces celebrate family beyond convention. How do you navigate the tension between honoring deeply personal narratives and ensuring your work remains open and resonant for viewers with very different life experiences?
Even though my upbringing was singular—adopted, multicultural, queer family—it touches on feelings many people know: the longing to belong, the complexity of love, the ache of identity. What matters isn’t my story, but how my story gives viewers permission to feel their own. That’s what makes personal art universal.
As an artist of both Danish and Tanzanian descent, how does your bicultural heritage influence your visual language? Do you consciously weave these dual perspectives into your compositions or do they emerge more intuitively?
Being both Danish and Tanzanian doesn’t create conflict—it creates frequency. Danish restraint gives my work structure; Tanzanian rhythm gives it pulse. Together, they let me balance harmony and disruption. My art doesn’t aim to resolve identity—it aims to honour all parts of it, at once.
You’ve expressed a strong interest in contemporary voices over historical ones. What do you believe today’s generation of artists is saying or not saying that is vital to the global cultural conversation?
The boldest thing this generation of artists is doing is reclaiming softness. In a world conditioned to armor up, we’re choosing transparency. What’s missing in the global conversation is depth. Not data—depth. Feeling. Care. That’s where art enters—not to instruct, but to open.
Your creative trajectory from book covers to sculpture, from new wave music to autism advocacy, defies linearity. How has this nontraditional path informed your understanding of what it means to live a truly artistic life?
I never had a five-year plan—I had a hundred passions. From book covers to sculpture, new wave music to autism advocacy, my work has always followed emotion first. Looking back, it wasn’t chaos—it was composition. A life arranged like a collage, with each layer feeding the next.
In your view, what is the most radical or generous thing an artwork can offer its audience in today’s world? And how do you hope your work continues to evolve to meet that offering?
What people need today is space. Not more stimulation—more stillness. The most radical thing an artwork can offer is safety: the feeling that for a moment, you don’t have to perform or explain. You can just be. That’s what I aim for—works that act like soft landings in a hard world.