‘It’s funny you ask, because the name keeps changing’: the chaos of Slawn at Saatchi Yates

Tien Albert, Editor-in-Chief

The 25-year-old Lagosian painter brings vibrancy, and colour to London’s Saatchi Yates as he turns it into his studio for the month. It’s a shame the art can be slightly boring…

A half pipe turned into a collaborative artwork... Courtesy of Saatchi Yates.

Around 30 canvases, a skate ramp, a Nintendo Switch 2, and a Big Mac meal on the floor. These scenes greet the visitor as they enter the Saatchi Yates gallery on Bury Street, in London. Just a two-minute walk away from The Ritz, the gallery’s bright, sterile white cube aesthetic usually matches the prestige you might expect from the name Saatchi. Now, it has been completely transformed by painter Olaolu Slawn as he moves in his studio for the month. 

The space is certainly lived in. Saatchi Yates’ hallowed white walls have been peppered with paintmarks from spraying past the top of canvases. One thing about Slawn: he doesn’t use masking tape. Where paintings have been moved, a ghostly outline remains on the walls marking their production. ‘I go for lunch, come back, and it’s completely different’, a gallerist tells me. The skate ramp, a half pipe which was ordered by Slawn just a few days before opening, was delivered in stock condition. It has since taken on layer upon layer of graffiti, both from Slawn and his visitors, almost enough for it to be considered its own collaborative artwork.

Indeed, the space takes on a Duchampian quality in its hybrid exhibition-studio status. Upon entering, I’m asked not to touch or take anything from the space by the security guard. That makes sense for Slawn’s paintings, but what about the discarded vape package on the floor next to them? Or what about Slawn’s personal bookshelf, which characteristically includes various issues of Supreme skater mags, and perhaps less characteristically a collection of selected short stories by Guy de Maupassant?

Visitors mill around, inspecting the artworks with as much detail as the video games and half finished matcha cup by the TV. There are a few empty armchairs and sofas surrounding it, but no one dares sit. In the evenings, as the gallery nears closing time, Slawn’s friends begin arriving for the night. When the first of these new guests sits down in the armchair, the atmosphere immediately shifts. It is as though the space is being thawed, after being put on pause all day.

Perhaps the security guard’s warning is necessary: you can’t help but feel an urge to grab a scrap piece of paper scribbled on by Slawn and frame it, or perhaps resell it online for vast profit.

Sinatra or Jackson... Michael Jackson, 2026. Courtesy of Saatchi Yates.

The paintings are so fresh that their influences are contained within the same room. On a wide table filled with empty paint canisters is placed a vinyl of Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits. It seems odd that the sleeve has been placed this far away from Slawn’s record player and the rest of his collection, which is on the other side of the room, until I look up and spot a brand new Slawn portrait of the eponymous man, doffing his trilby at us. Of course, the reference has been corrupted in the artist’s vibrant, abstracted style: whereas in the Ultimate Sinatra compilation, the singer stands against a light blue backdrop, in Slawn’s painting it is Sinatra himself who has turned blue. Expressive scratch-like marks contort themselves over huge, exaggerated pearly whites, which are themselves polluted by flecks of paint from long distance spraying. Slawn is not a careful painter. 

It’s also a testament to the chaos of the exhibition that even the painting’s name isn’t clear. Saatchi Yates currently lists it as Michael Jackson, seemingly some kind of in-joke, but when I ask for clarification, a slightly mystified-sounding gallerist tells me it's funny I asked, because the name keeps changing. 

Somewhat predictably, the most underwhelming part of the exhibition is Slawn’s art itself. The painter hasn’t evolved much from his vivid, Keith Haring-esque style since he burst onto London’s art scene in 2020. Whilst his mediums outside the gallery keep getting wilder (he has spray painted Rolexes, F1 cars, planes, and more in the last year), his trials on canvas seem rather tame comparatively.

The atmosphere immediately shifts... Courtesy of Saatchi Yates.

Still, it’s hard to emphasise how frenzied the space feels. Shortly before the opening of the exhibition, Slawn requested that a recording studio be placed in the gallery. The resulting wooden shed, from which a Drake vocal sample emanates over a drill beat, permeating the entire display space, looks like it's been airlifted in. Of course, the shed isn’t safe from graffiti, and by the time of my second visit it looks as though it’s been there for years.

In the gallery, one painting still stands out. It’s a portrait by the artist Teoni, a friend and collaborator of Slawn, of his 3-year-old slumped in one of the gallery’s armchairs, watching Peppa Pig. Amid the clutter, the stillness of the picture is striking. Perhaps you need to be outside the bedlam to illustrate it best.

Slawn’s studio was on display at Saatchi Yates, London, until the 25th of February.