Have you encountered yet another glowing tribute to “Le Hangar,” the supposed birthplace of modern Congolese art? Open any book about Congolese art history and three colonial names inevitably dominate the narrative: Georges Thiry, Pierre Romain Desfosses, and Laurent Moonens – as if Congolese art began with their “discovery.” This persistent colonial lens transforms art histories into tributes to European “mentors,” erasing centuries of pre-existing artistic traditions. Behind Le Hangar’s carefully curated image lies a darker truth: it served both as Belgium’s desperate attempt to rebrand its brutal colonial image into that of a “cultural protector,” and as a sophisticated system for controlling and profiting from Congolese art.
This essay examines both local and global contexts to expose how Le Hangar served not as an artistic sanctuary, but as a tool of colonial propaganda and economic exploitation—a reality that still shapes how Congolese art history is told today.

There is a place in New Orleans called Congo Square. Its name doesn’t come from diplomatic relations or cultural exchange between Congo and USA, but from the suffering and resilience of enslaved Africans, primarily from the Kingdom of Kongo. In the heart of a segregated city, this open space became a sanctuary where, on “free Sundays,” enslaved people and Native Americans could gather to perform sacred rituals, trade goods, share stories, and dance to the rhythms of their ancestral lands. What tourists now celebrate as the birthplace of jazz was once dismissively known as “the Negro place”—a designation that attempted to diminish its significance but inadvertently marked the spot where one of America’s greatest cultural transformations would emerge. This is the story of how a place of oppression became a crucible of creativity, where the traditions of the Kongo Kingdom met Native American customs and European influences to create something entirely new.