Most travelers have heard of the Maldives, Mauritius, Seychelles—the famous names that dominate Indian Ocean travel brochures. But few know about Comoros, and that's precisely what makes it extraordinary. This volcanic archipelago floating between Madagascar and Mozambique sees only a few thousand international visitors each year, which means its beaches remain largely untouched, its marine parks uncrowded, its fishing villages authentically themselves rather than performances for tourists.
The islands earned their nickname "the Perfumed Islands" honestly. Ylang-ylang plantations blanket hillsides, their fragrant flowers harvested for perfume houses in Paris. The air itself smells different here—frangipani, cloves, vanilla, salt. Walking along a Comoros beach means experiencing sand so white it seems unreal, water so clear you can see coral formations thirty meters offshore, and an absence of crowds so complete you might spend an entire afternoon encountering no one but fishermen pulling in their morning catch.
This isn't the polished, resort-style Indian Ocean experience you find elsewhere. Comoros is raw, authentic, and occasionally challenging in ways that make it feel more real. Roads can be rough. Accommodations lean toward simple rather than luxurious. But for travelers tired of manufactured "paradise," these imperfections are features, not bugs. They're what keeps Comoros genuine when so many tropical destinations have become indistinguishable from each other.
Comoros comprises three main islands—Grande Comore (Ngazidja), Mohéli (Mwali), and Anjouan (Ndzuwani)—forming a volcanic arc at the northern end of the Mozambique Channel, about 300 kilometers off Africa's eastern coast. A fourth island, Mayotte, remains under French administration and isn't part of the Union of the Comoros, which gained independence from France in 1975.
The islands' relative obscurity stems from a complicated political history. Over two decades following independence, Comoros experienced roughly twenty coups d'état, creating a reputation for instability that scared off tourism development. Today the country is peaceful and safe, but the perception lingers in outdated travel advisories and collective memory. Infrastructure also lags behind wealthier neighbors—there are few luxury resorts, roads can be challenging, and tourist services remain basic compared to more developed destinations.
But these factors have inadvertently protected something precious. While Mauritius and Seychelles built massive tourism industries, Comoros remained largely undeveloped, preserving beaches and marine ecosystems that elsewhere have been degraded by heavy visitation. Mohéli Island is a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. The Mohéli Marine Park protects critical nesting sites for green and hawksbill turtles. Coral reefs here rival any in the Indian Ocean, accessible to anyone who can swim rather than exclusive resort guests.
The cultural tapestry is equally rich. Comoros sits at the crossroads of African, Arab, Indian, and French civilizations. The result is Swahili culture inflected with Islamic traditions, French colonial architecture, and distinctly Comorian customs like elaborate wedding ceremonies that last days. The local language, Shikomoro, is related to Swahili but distinct enough to be its own tongue. Walk through Moroni's old medina and you'll see mosques alongside French-style buildings, hear Arabic prayers mingling with French conversations, smell African spices sold alongside French baguettes.
This cultural mixing extends to the people, who are genuinely welcoming rather than performing hospitality for tips. In destinations where tourism dominates, locals naturally view visitors as economic opportunities. In Comoros, you're still somewhat novel, which means interactions feel more authentic. People invite you for coffee because they're curious, not because they're selling something.
Comoros beaches differ fundamentally from the famous powdery crescents of other Indian Ocean islands. These are volcanic islands, which means much of the coastline is dramatic rather than postcard-perfect. Dark lava rock tumbles into turquoise water. Black sand beaches absorb afternoon heat. Recent lava flows create stark landscapes where nothing grows yet, just sharp volcanic stone meeting endless blue.
But between these dramatic stretches lie pockets of paradise that rival anywhere in the world. Nioumachoua Beach on Mohéli is what people imagine when they dream of deserted tropical islands—white sand curving into crystalline water, palm trees providing natural shade, visibility so good you can see fish from shore. The beach sits within the Mohéli Marine Park, which means the underwater life is protected and abundant. Swim out fifty meters and you're surrounded by tropical fish in colors that seem impossible—electric blue, neon yellow, deep purple.
Moya Beach on Anjouan offers similar pristine beauty with the added benefit of being surrounded by lush greenery. The vegetation here grows right down to the waterline, creating scenes where jungle literally meets ocean. The sand is soft and white, the water calm enough for children, the atmosphere so peaceful you can hear individual waves lapping shore from a hundred meters away.
Itsandra Beach near Moroni provides a different experience—more accessible, more populated, but still maintaining an authenticity lacking in typical tourist beaches. Local families picnic here on weekends. Fishermen launch traditional wooden boats called ngalawa early each morning, returning with catches they'll sell at nearby markets. The beach serves as genuine community space rather than tourist attraction, which means you're witnessing actual Comorian life rather than a sanitized version.
Grande Comore's Chomoni Beach combines the best elements—white sand, turquoise water, fringing palm trees, and exceptional diving opportunities just offshore. The coral reefs here are healthy and diverse, home to everything from tiny damselfish to occasional passing dolphins. The beach remains relatively uncrowded even on weekends because Comoros lacks the infrastructure to bring masses of people to any single location.
What strikes visitors most about Comorian beaches is the light. Perhaps it's the volcanic dust in the air, or the particular angle of equatorial sun, but colors appear more saturated here than elsewhere. Blues glow more intensely. Whites seem whiter. The quality of light shifts throughout the day, painting the same beach in completely different palettes—soft pastels at dawn, harsh brilliant colors at noon, warm golds and oranges at sunset.
The sounds matter too. Without beach clubs blasting music or jet skis screaming past, you hear what beaches actually sound like—waves, wind in palm fronds, birds calling, distant voices of fishermen shouting to each other. It's quieter than you expect paradise to be, and that quiet becomes addictive.
Islands reveal themselves slowly or not at all. Comoros demands patience, curiosity, and willingness to accept imperfection. This isn't a place where you check into an all-inclusive resort and never leave the grounds. It's a place where you might take a bicycle across Mohéli because the roads are empty, stopping to ask directions from someone who doesn't speak your language but understands pointing. Where you climb Mount Karthala, an active volcano, camping overnight to watch sunrise from the crater rim. Where you spend an afternoon at Itsandra Beach and end up invited to share lunch with a family who wants to practice their French with you.
The lack of tourism infrastructure forces interaction with actual Comoran life rather than a curated version designed for visitors. Need to get to another beach? You'll probably arrange a ride with a local rather than summon an Uber. Want to eat? You'll end up at small family restaurants where the menu depends on what was fresh at market that morning. Looking for activities? You'll ask around and discover a fisherman who'll take you out on his boat for a few euros, or a guide who knows the best snorkeling spots and charges a fraction of what organized tours cost elsewhere.
This authenticity appeals particularly to travelers who've done the standard tropical vacation before and found it empty. There's something hollow about resort experiences where everything is comfortable and predictable but nothing feels real. Comoros offers the opposite—experiences that occasionally test your flexibility but reward you with genuine connection to place and people.
The islands attract certain personality types. Adventure travelers come for the volcano climbing and relatively unexplored diving sites. Ecotourists come for the marine parks and endemic species found nowhere else—the Livingstone's fruit bat with its 1.5-meter wingspan, the Comoro black parrot, the Humblot's flycatcher. Photographers come for the light and the cultural richness. But increasingly, people come simply to escape the commercialized version of tropical paradise and find something more authentic.
Mohéli exemplifies this perfectly. The smallest of the three islands, it's also the wildest and least developed. Accommodation consists mainly of eco-lodges—simple structures with basic amenities, positioned to minimize environmental impact. Electricity can be sporadic. Hot water is luxury rather than expectation. But you wake to turtles nesting on the beach outside your door. You snorkel with dolphins in the afternoon. You eat fish caught that morning, prepared by someone whose family has cooked that recipe for generations.
This kind of travel requires different metrics for success. Comfort becomes less important than experience. Convenience matters less than authenticity. Instagram-perfect photos take a backseat to moments that can't be captured but stay with you forever—a conversation with an elderly fisherman who's seen the islands change, the particular quality of light just before sunset when everything glows gold, the taste of vanilla beans purchased directly from the farmer who grew them.
Returning from Comoros creates a specific kind of homesickness. You miss the simplicity, the slower pace, the absence of digital noise that characterizes modern life everywhere else. Mornings without alarm clocks. Afternoons with no agenda. Evenings spent watching sunset because there's literally nothing competing for your attention.
People try to hold onto these feelings through various means. Some commit to unplugging one day per week, trying to recreate that sense of time expanding rather than racing past. Others cook Comorian food—poulet coco with its coconut-rich sauce, langouste à la comedienne when they can find good lobster, even simple grilled fish seasoned the way they had it on Itsandra Beach. These practices help, but they're temporary. The feeling fades as deadlines pile up and routines reassert themselves.
Interior spaces offer more lasting connection. Creating a home environment that evokes that island peace doesn't require literal recreation—you're not installing palm trees in your living room. Instead, it's about capturing the essence through color, texture, and particularly through art that recalls specific feelings rather than specific places.
Coastal-inspired design works by triggering associations. Blues remind us of water and sky, inducing calm similar to what we felt staring at the horizon. Natural materials like wood, linen, and woven fibers evoke the tactile simplicity of beach life. Minimal clutter reflects the streamlined existence possible on islands where you can't accumulate much stuff even if you wanted to. The aesthetic becomes a daily reminder that a different way of living exists, one you experienced and can choose to channel even in contexts that fight against it.
Art sits at the center of this approach because it engages us more deeply than furniture or paint colors. A well-chosen piece doesn't just fill wall space—it transports you, even briefly, back to the emotional state you're trying to maintain. Looking at a painting of palm trees silhouetted against a brilliant sunset can trigger the same neural patterns as actually watching sunset, complete with the accompanying sense of calm and perspective.
For Comoros specifically, what you're trying to capture is that feeling of discovery, of finding something authentic in a world of manufactured experiences. The art that best accomplishes this comes from places with similar authenticity—regions where artists create from genuine connection to landscape and culture rather than commercial calculation.
The East African coast shares essential DNA with Comoros despite geographic separation. Both are part of the Swahili cultural sphere that extends from Somalia down through Tanzania and Mozambique. The same Indian Ocean washes both shores. Similar dhows with distinctive triangular sails have plied these waters for over a thousand years. The cultural mixing of African, Arab, and Indian influences creates similar aesthetic sensibilities.
Tanzanian coastal artists, particularly those working in the Tingatinga tradition and its contemporary evolutions, capture tropical coastal essence in ways that resonate with anyone who's spent time in the Indian Ocean islands. These aren't photorealistic renderings—they're emotional interpretations that somehow feel more true than photographs. Landscape paintings from East African artists frequently feature elements familiar to anyone who's visited Comoros: palm trees leaning over pristine beaches, fishing boats pulled up on white sand, brilliant sunsets reflecting off calm water.
The color palettes overlap perfectly. Both Comoros and coastal Tanzania exist near the equator where light has particular intensity. Artists working in this environment naturally gravitate toward saturated, vivid colors—deep blues for ocean depths, bright turquoise for shallow lagoons, intense oranges and pinks for tropical sunsets. These aren't exaggerations; they're honest representations of how color appears in this latitude, under this light.
The stylistic approach of East African coastal painting—simplified forms, bold outlines, emphasis on essential elements rather than exhaustive detail—captures feeling over fact. A Tingatinga beach scene might show palm trees in impossibly bright greens, water in colors no camera would record, yet it somehow communicates the actual experience of being there more effectively than a photograph could. This happens because art can emphasize what matters emotionally while omitting distracting details that cameras capture indiscriminately.
Contemporary African artists working in this tradition have evolved the style further, sometimes incorporating more realistic elements while maintaining the emotional vibrancy that defines the work. Some blend traditional flat perspectives with dimensional depth. Others experiment with mixed media, adding texture that makes the work even more engaging. But the core remains—celebration of coastal life through bold color and simplified forms that communicate joy and warmth.
What makes this art particularly suitable for people who've traveled to Comoros is the shared authenticity. These aren't commercial artists creating generic tropical scenes calculated to sell in furniture stores. They're East African artists with genuine connections to coastal life, painting environments they know intimately. That knowledge translates into the work in subtle ways—the particular angle of palm trees shaped by constant ocean wind, the specific colors of boats used in different regions, the quality of light just before afternoon rains arrive.
Having this kind of art in your home creates daily touchpoints with the feelings you found on vacation. Every time you walk past that painting of a sunset beach, you're reminded not just of specific places but of the mindset you cultivated there—present, calm, appreciating beauty rather than rushing past it. The art becomes a kind of anchor, connecting your daily reality to that other way of being you discovered on the islands.
Mass production has made everything cheaper and more accessible, including art. You can buy a decent-looking print of almost anything for minimal cost, frame it adequately, and fill wall space without significant investment. This has democratized decoration, which is good. But it's also created environments filled with reproductions and approximations rather than genuine human expression.
Hand-painted art occupies fundamentally different psychological space. When you look at an original painting, you're seeing something that human hands created, every brushstroke a decision, every color mixed specifically for that moment in that composition. There's texture—actual physical dimension you can see and sometimes feel. Light hits the surface differently throughout the day as it catches ridges of built-up paint. The work has presence in a way prints simply don't.
This matters more than we usually acknowledge. Humans are evolved to recognize authenticity. We can sense the difference between something made and something manufactured, even if we can't articulate exactly what we're detecting. Original paintings read as genuine human expression. Prints read as copies, no matter how high quality. This distinction affects how we relate to our spaces and what those spaces do for our state of mind.
For artwork meant to maintain connection with travel experiences and the states of mind they produced, authenticity becomes even more critical. A print of a beach is like looking at someone else's vacation photos—intellectually interesting but emotionally distant. But an original painting by an artist who understands coastal life from lived experience carries genuine resonance. The artist isn't imagining some generic paradise; they're expressing their actual relationship with these environments, using skills developed over years or decades of practice.
The investment in original art also changes the relationship. A print can be replaced casually when you redecorate or move. An original painting you genuinely love becomes part of your life story, something you pack carefully and find new walls for because leaving it behind is unthinkable. It appreciates in ways beyond financial value—it accumulates memory and meaning the longer you live with it.
Tanzanian artists creating coastal paintings bring particular authenticity because they're not working from imagination or photographs. They live where the Indian Ocean meets Africa. They know how afternoon light hits water, which species of palm grow in specific conditions, the exact colors of traditional boats. This knowledge permeates their work in ways that make it feel grounded and genuine rather than fantasized.
The handmade nature connects to broader questions about what we value and why. Choosing original art over mass-produced prints is choosing to fill your space with evidence of human creativity and skill. It's saying that the particular way this specific person interpreted this subject matters more than efficiency or perfect reproducibility. In an increasingly automated world where algorithms determine more and more of what we encounter, this kind of choice takes on additional significance.
Most people approach interior design backwards—they start with furniture and function, treating art as afterthought decoration added last to fill blank walls. But spaces that actually feel good, that support wellbeing rather than just provide shelter, reverse this priority. They begin with the question: How do I want to feel here? Then build around answers.
For someone returning from Comoros trying to maintain that sense of peace and presence, the question becomes: What elements trigger those states? Color is one answer—the blues and turquoise of ocean and sky, the warm sand tones, the deep greens of tropical vegetation. Natural materials provide another—wood and linen and woven textures that feel organic rather than synthetic. Minimal clutter helps too, reflecting the simplified life possible on islands.
But art provides the most direct route because it engages us emotionally rather than just functionally. A painting isn't utility—you don't sit on it or store things in it. Its entire purpose is aesthetic and emotional engagement. This makes it uniquely suited to maintaining specific states of mind.
The key is choosing pieces that genuinely move you rather than just coordinating with your color scheme. Interior design magazines push matching—everything coordinated, nothing jarring. But rooms designed this way often feel sterile because they're more concerned with visual coherence than emotional resonance. Better to have one painting you genuinely love that doesn't quite match than five that coordinate perfectly but leave you unmoved.
For coastal-inspired spaces specifically, authenticity matters more than literal representation. You don't need paintings of the exact beach you visited in Comoros. You need work that captures the feeling those beaches gave you. An East African artist's interpretation of a sunset beach might show slightly different trees and boats than you saw in Mohéli, but if it triggers the same sense of peace and wonder, it accomplishes the goal more effectively than a photograph of the actual location.
Scale matters too. Small paintings get lost on large walls, becoming barely noticeable background elements. Proper sizing means the art commands attention without dominating—typically something between 80cm and 120cm on the longest dimension for primary living spaces, smaller for intimate areas like bedrooms or reading nooks. The painting should feel like it owns its wall rather than apologizing for occupying space.
Browse the full range of tropical and coastal paintings to see how different approaches to similar subjects create different emotional effects. Some artists work in bright, almost neon colors for maximum impact. Others prefer muted, naturalistic palettes that evoke gentle morning light. Neither is objectively better—it depends what you're trying to feel when you look at the work.
Lighting deserves attention because it dramatically affects how art appears. Natural light brings out colors and details but can create glare depending on angle. Artificial lighting should be warm-toned rather than cool, ideally directed at the painting rather than ambient. Good lighting makes art come alive, revealing texture and color relationships that disappear in dim or wrong-colored light.
Certain places resonate with certain people for reasons hard to articulate. Comoros speaks particularly to those tired of commercialized travel, people who've visited the famous destinations and found them somehow hollow despite their beauty. If you've ever walked a pristine beach crowded with sun loungers and beach clubs and thought "this is beautiful but it's not what I'm looking for," Comoros might be your place.
The islands appeal to people comfortable with imperfection, those who can appreciate rustic accommodations and challenging logistics as part of the experience rather than obstacles to enjoyment. If you need everything to work smoothly and comfortably, Comoros will frustrate you. But if you can accept that hot water might be intermittent and roads might be rough, you'll find something increasingly rare—genuine connection to place and people rather than curated tourist experiences.
This same sensibility translates to aesthetic choices. People drawn to Comoros-style authenticity typically prefer original art with character and imperfection over mass-produced prints that look perfect but feel empty. They value handmade over manufactured, unique over reproducible, authentic over polished. These preferences reflect broader values about what makes life meaningful.
The aesthetic works in surprisingly diverse spaces. Beach houses are obvious candidates, but the style translates beautifully to urban apartments where it provides contrast and warmth against concrete and glass. Home offices benefit particularly—working from home requires even more conscious effort to maintain boundaries between professional stress and personal peace. Having visual reminders of beach tranquility in your workspace helps maintain perspective when deadlines pile up.
Families with children often find this aesthetic appealing because kids respond instinctively to bright colors and joyful imagery. A vibrant tropical painting in a child's room does double duty—decorating the space while introducing them to art as genuine human expression rather than mass-manufactured decoration. Plus it's sturdy enough to survive the various disasters children inflict on their environments.
Collectors of travel-inspired art typically follow similar patterns. They start with photographs or generic prints from trips, then gradually realize these don't capture what they're trying to preserve. Eventually they discover original art from regions they've visited, recognizing that authentic artistic interpretation connects them to places more deeply than literal documentation. A painting becomes not just a reminder of where they've been, but a living connection to the feelings those places produced.
The international appeal of tropical coastal art reflects something universal about beaches—they represent escape, simplicity, and freedom from normal constraints regardless of where you live. A person in Stockholm responds to ocean scenes for the same reasons someone in São Paulo does. The specific geography matters less than the emotional content—warmth, calm, beauty, presence.
People who return from Comoros often struggle to explain what changed. They'll show photos of beautiful beaches and describe encounters with turtles or dolphins. They'll mention the food, the friendly locals, the dramatic volcanic landscapes. But something more significant happened that's harder to articulate—a shift in perspective about what actually matters.
Islands teach specific lessons by limiting your options in productive ways. You can only go so far before hitting water, which creates natural boundaries that force acceptance rather than endless striving. Time moves differently when you're not constantly connected, when sunset becomes your evening entertainment because there's nothing competing for attention. Relationships deepen when you spend days rather than hours with people, when language barriers force you to communicate through gesture and expression and shared laughter.
Comoros teaches these lessons more intensely than more developed destinations because the lack of tourist infrastructure means you're actually on an island rather than in a resort that happens to be located on an island. You experience the constraints and the liberation they provide. You discover what your mind does when not constantly stimulated. You learn the difference between busy and productive, between distraction and engagement.
This understanding doesn't require permanent island residency. It just requires regular reminding that this other way of being exists and remains accessible. Some people maintain the connection through practices—meditation, regular disconnection from devices, conscious slow-downs. Others rely more heavily on environmental cues, creating spaces that trigger the mental states they're trying to preserve.
Art serves both functions. It's environmental—a physical presence that shapes your space and influences your mood. But it's also practice—every time you actually look at it rather than past it, you're exercising the same muscles of attention and appreciation you used watching sunset from Itsandra Beach. You're choosing to notice beauty rather than rush past it, which is exactly what islands teach you to do.
The goal isn't recreating Comoros in your apartment. That's impossible and probably undesirable. The goal is maintaining connection to the version of yourself that existed there—calmer, more present, better at distinguishing what matters from what merely seems urgent. That version still exists in you. It just needs reminding, regularly and intentionally, through practices and environments that pull it forward.
When you look at a hand-painted coastal scene and feel your shoulders drop slightly, your breathing deepen just a bit, your mental chatter quiet momentarily—that's the reminder working. That's the art doing what it's meant to do, not just decorating your wall but actually shifting your state. And that shift, accumulated over days and months and years, keeps you connected to the understanding you found on the islands: that beauty exists, that presence matters, that there's another pace of life available if you remember to access it.
What makes Comoros special for beach lovers?
Comoros offers something increasingly rare—authentically undeveloped tropical beaches with virtually no crowds. The islands see only a few thousand international visitors annually, meaning beaches like Nioumachoua and Moya remain pristine. Protected marine parks ensure healthy coral reefs teeming with life. But beyond physical beauty, Comoros provides authentic connection to island culture and the Swahili way of life. You're not experiencing a sanitized tourist version of tropical paradise; you're engaging with real communities where fishing and farming still define daily rhythms, where beaches serve as workplaces and gathering spots rather than exclusively tourist attractions.
Is Comoros safe for travelers?
Yes. Despite historical political instability, Comoros today is peaceful and safe for visitors. Crime rates are low, and locals are genuinely welcoming. The main challenges are logistical rather than safety-related—roads can be rough, infrastructure is limited, and services don't always meet Western standards. The country isn't set up for mass tourism, which means travelers need more flexibility and patience than in more developed destinations. But actual safety concerns are minimal. Standard travel precautions apply, as they do anywhere, but Comoros doesn't present unusual risks to visitors.
How is Comoros different from Mauritius or Seychelles?
Comoros offers raw authenticity where Mauritius and Seychelles provide polished luxury. While those islands have invested heavily in tourism infrastructure—luxury resorts, organized activities, smooth roads—Comoros remains largely undeveloped. This means fewer amenities and less convenience, but also genuine cultural experiences, uncrowded beaches, and significantly lower costs. Mauritius and Seychelles are perfect for visitors who want comfort and predictability. Comoros suits travelers comfortable with imperfection who value authentic experience over polished service. It's the difference between a five-star resort and wild camping—both can be great, but they serve different needs and attract different personalities.
What type of art best captures the Comoros experience?
Art that emphasizes emotional truth over photographic accuracy works best for capturing island experiences. East African coastal paintings, particularly those in the Tingatinga and contemporary styles, use bold colors and simplified forms to express the feeling of tropical coastal life rather than literally documenting it. These pieces capture the intense light, vibrant colors, and essential elements—palms, boats, beaches, sunsets—that define the visual experience while maintaining artistic interpretation. Hand-painted original works carry authenticity that prints lack, creating genuine connection to place rather than mere decoration. The goal isn't reproduction but evocation—triggering the same emotional responses you felt on the actual islands.
Why choose hand-painted African art over prints or photographs?
Hand-painted artwork carries authenticity and presence that reproductions fundamentally lack. Every brushstroke represents human decision-making and skill. The texture is real and physical, catching light differently throughout the day. Original paintings by East African artists bring genuine understanding of coastal tropical environments—they're not imagining generic paradise but expressing their lived relationship with these landscapes. This authenticity creates deeper emotional resonance than even high-quality prints. Additionally, original art appreciates in value and meaning over time, becoming part of your life story rather than disposable decoration. When art is meant to maintain connection with meaningful travel experiences, that authenticity matters enormously.
What colors and elements work best for tropical-inspired interiors?
Ocean blues and turquoise anchor coastal aesthetics, evoking water and sky while inducing calm. Sand tones, warm whites, and natural wood provide grounding warmth. Accent colors might include the deep greens of tropical vegetation, sunset oranges and pinks, or the vibrant primaries found in traditional fishing boats. Natural materials—linen, woven textures, unfinished wood—enhance the organic feel. Most importantly, choose colors and pieces that genuinely resonate with you rather than following design rules. A space should trigger the specific feelings you're trying to maintain, which means personalization matters more than coordination. One painting you love that doesn't quite "match" serves you better than five that coordinate perfectly but leave you unmoved.
Discover handmade tropical and coastal artwork at TingaTinga African Art, where Tanzanian artists create vibrant, original pieces inspired by East Africa's Indian Ocean coastline. Each painting carries authentic connection to coastal life, handcrafted using traditional techniques that have defined East African art for generations.
|
Centimeters (CM) |
Inches (IN) |
|
50CM x 40CM |
19 11/16 in XÂ 15 3/4 in |
|
50CM x 50CM |
19 11/16 in XÂ 19 11/16 in |
|
60CM x 60CM |
23 5/8 in XÂ 23 5/8 in |
|
70CM x 50CM |
27 9/16 in XÂ 19 11/16 in |
|
80CM x 60CM |
31 1/2 in XÂ 23 5/8 in |
|
100CM x 80CM |
39 3/8 in XÂ 31 1/2 in |
|
140CM x 110CM |
55 1/8 in X 43 5/16 in |
