Alex Ayivi was born in 1993 in France from Togolese parents and grew up near Paris. He is a French contemporary visual artist. He graduated from the Beaux-Arts de Bourges and later from ENSAV La Cambre in Brussels, in 2018 in printmaking. In 2019, Ayivi benefited from the first residency of the Culture & Diversity Foundation in collaboration with the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris, where he exhibited his famous project La MUA for a month.

He also exhibited at the Centre de la Gravure de la Louvière in Belgium. As a second-generation Togolese immigrant, his work explores Afrotopia, Pan-Africanism and family; subjects that are intertwined in an uninterrupted technical wandering. His work is multidisciplinary and borrows from drawing, silk-screening and painting. I met Alex Ayivi in his studio. This is the content of our discussion.

Louise Thurin (L.T): Thank you for accepting this interview in your workspace, Alex. You graduated from the Beaux-arts de Bourges and ENSAV La Cambre in engraving and printmaking. At the end of your studies, you produced a particularly promising and acclaimed first project, “60 years is too much”.

Alex Ayivi (A.A): Thank you. “60 Years is Too Much” was an anticipatory project based on the political crisis in Togo in 2017-1018. Following the dictatorial declarations of Faure Gnassingbé – in presidency since 2005 and “worthy” successor of his father Gnassingbé Eyadéma who ruled the country for 38 years – large-scale protests took place in Lomé with the slogan “50 years is too much”. The aim was to constitutionally prevent Faure from standing for a fourth consecutive presidential run in 2020. It was a familiar, daily, omnipresent subject. At home, we talked about politics all the time. I wanted to deal with the situation and contribute in my own way to this popular resistance movement.

The idea was to create the fictional character of a Togolese journalist and press illustrator called Kossi Sossou, who was killed in 2027 by the forces of law and order during yet another demonstration against the president – who would still be Faure Gnassingbé. I created his identity card, protest tools and a fictitious opposition party to which he was attached, the Ligue for Freedom. The party even had its own t-shirts.

The heart of the project are these silkscreens on cardboard. I attribute these works in this fiction to Kossi Sossou, who has them published in the major Togolese and French-speaking newspapers.

L.T: Why did you choose to create with cardboard?

A.A: It is a simple and beautiful medium. It reminds me of the roots, the resourcefulness, even the urgency – “Quick, I’ll take what I have!”of the signs of the demonstrations I saw organised in front of the Togo embassy in Paris. In Dialogue interrompu, we recognise Nana Akufo-Addo, the president of Ghana, Togo’s neighbour, by his small round glasses. On the left, of course, is Faure Gnassingbé with his youthful features. Back in 2017-2018 when Gnassingbé was scheming, Nana publicly and frontally opposed him. It is the image of a man I hope has integrity that I represented.

A.A: It’s a project that was made at a distance from its subject. I was inspired by the images broadcast in a loop on continuous news channels – hence these effects of superposition, of fragmentation. I was very inspired by the format of the plasma TV screen and if you look closely at this series, you see the scrolling banner motif appearing repeatedly.

L.T: Now that it’s said, some of the motifs remind me of the front pages of Jeune Afrique and the photomontages of election results…. Who are the people in the crowd behind the two men? Supporters plebisciting Gnassingbé? Or Togolese opponents who want to overthrow him?

A.A: It is not clear, but one can make out signs superimposed on them – which also act as a mise en abime of the medium.

L.T: Your characters are represented with closed eyes, blind – and mute: no words, no chanted signs. Only a kind of bubble, in which you do not write.

A.A: Yes, they are empty bubbles. As a nod to the comic strip, which I like very much, but I consider that a text would focus attention too easily. That’s all you might see.

The work Crise – Crisis – depicts a street in Lomé on a day of protest. There is an armed soldier and a military van. Superimposed on the picture is a profile of President Faure, and at the bottom, a scrolling strip of news channels. On the right, there is a sort of bubble and a pie chart, which obviously evokes polling figures and election results. I like all these forms of visual dynamics which TV news are full of these days. There’s beauty, I think, in PowerPoint, screen splits, little logos in the top right-hand corner…

I am pessimistic about Togolese political developments. Elections are always held, well or not. The opposition never manages to stop this charade operated by the military to ensure the illegitimate president in place. Sadly, I feel that I have done this work of foresight: we are approaching “60 years is too long”. In the same way, the utopia of the Monnaie Unique Africaine (MUA) – African Single Currency – is likely to remain a utopia. There is a project for a common West African currency, but it is not happening.

L.T: Tell us about this second project. In 2019, you were the laureate of the first residency of the Fondation Culture et Diversité in collaboration with the Cité internationale des Arts for which you propose the MUA.

A.A: The idea was to create a common pan-African currency that would replace the colonial currency of the CFA Franc. It is a project with a Francophone prism and it is not meant to be perfect. I have put together a non-exhaustive list of African political figures from the 20th century – some classics and some more atypical figures like Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia or Julius Nyerere of Tanzania. All are worth 99 MUA. In this monetary fiction, I did not want to rank the personalities on the currencies.

“Here, give me a cash ticket! – What do you want, 100, 200, 300? Some florins? What do you want?”

L.T: For the opening of the exhibition at the Cité internationale, you did a performance: a distribution of paper money that was quite successful, apparently. The scene reminds me both of mafiosi films and dystopian photographs of German hyperinflation.

I signed the money with a stamp. To dry the ink, we had to fan them. It was a banana republic atmosphere. They were so popular that I even had bundles of them stolen during the exhibition! [laughs] Thomas Sankara greenbacks are now collectors’ items.

L.T: After the success of the MUA in 2019, you took a break from creating. Now you are back and there is a clear technical break in your work.

A.A: Yes, I went back to painting after years of silk-screening. I now concentrate on portraits in dark tones. I never spoke directly about my intimate self in my previous works. This is my cousin. Here, my little brother. Here is my sister – and behind her my little brother again. I often draw him, he’s a good model.

L.T: All your characters have closed eyes. In these paintings, they emanate a certain serenity, relaxation, breathing… They are young contemporary Afros who are resting from their daily life, giving themselves a moment of peace.

A.A: I’ve been using the closed-eye pattern for quite a long time. It just came about. For me, it’s an almost deathlike iconography. The porous ones of eternal sleep and daily rest. The figures I drew for the MUA already had closed eyes – and in fact, are dead.

A.A: I see these family portraits as an album – an album of images that would allow the faces of the first family generation on French ground to be passed on to the next… These representations of people from the African diaspora resonate more generally with current societal issues, at a time of debates concerning “separatism”. What place do the children of the African diaspora have in French society today? What does it mean to be French in 2020 ?

From 2022 to 2023, you were an artist-in-residence at Le Consulat, a period marked by your participation in 100% L’Expo 2022, which revealed a new evolution in your style. Now based at Atelier Œ in Montreuil, how would you describe this transition and the impact this period had on your artistic practice?

That stage was crucial: following an artist residency at Place de Clichy, I joined Le Consulat Voltaire in 2022 after taking part in 100% L’Expo. Le Consulat was my first “open” shared studio — a space where I worked alongside other artists. It felt like a return to art school, and the experience proved to be particularly enriching.

During that time, I drew inspiration from reading, especially The Grammar of Fantasy (1973) by Gianni Rodari, a book that deeply influenced my work. It led me to explore a metaphysical approach to painting on wooden panels, questioning the essence of comics and the narrative codes they rely on.

As we speak, you were recently announced as the winner of the Traversées Africaines Prize, granting you the opportunity to present a solo exhibition at Galerie Mariton in Saint-Ouen-sur-Seine. Congratulations! Could you tell us about what went on behind the scenes in preparing for this exhibition?

This solo show is a chance to bring together my painting practice and my wooden sculptures. I developed these sculptural pieces to go beyond the traditional format of the canvas, creating a dialogue between interior and exterior elements.

The first steps of this approach emerged at the end of 2023 in Lille, in collaboration with the Centre Wallonie-Bruxelles, where I presented Superbanc (2023) — my first sculpture directly inspired by my painting practice.

Discover Alex Ayivi’s work in the exhibition Hi-Dee-Hi at Galerie Mariton in Saint-Ouen-sur-Seine, from May 13 to June 1, 2025, as part of the Traversées Africaines program.

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In this short video, South African artist Nicholas Hlobo introduces his sculptures and wall pieces – among them Unduluko (2016) and Intlantsana (2017) – on display in the Hayward Gallery, London exhibition Kiss My Genders, and discusses his use of materials. 

© Southbank Centre

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House of Stone synopsis: In the chronic turmoil of modern Zimbabwe, Abednego and Agnes Mlambo’s teenage son, Bukhosi, has gone missing, and the Mlambos fear the worst. Their enigmatic lodger, Zamani, seems to be their last, best hope for finding him. Since Bukhosi’s disappearance, Zamani has been preternaturally helpful: hanging missing posters in downtown Bulawayo, handing out fliers to passersby, and joining in family prayer vigils with the flamboyant Reverend Pastor from Agnes’s Blessed Anointings church. It’s almost like Zamani is part of the family…

But almost isn’t nearly enough for Zamani. He ingratiates himself with Agnes and feeds alcoholic Abednego’s addiction, desperate to extract their life stories and steep himself in borrowed family history, as keenly aware as any colonialist or power-mad despot that the one who controls the narrative inherits the future. As Abednego wrestles with the ghosts of his past and Agnes seeks solace in a deep-rooted love, their histories converge and each must confront the past to find their place in a new Zimbabwe.

Nkgopoleng Moloi (NM): Can we start with the title of the book; “House of Stone”, what does it allude to? 

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): It’s the translation of the country name “Zimbabwe.” In this way, we can think of it, in the novel, as a sort of allegory of the country, an exploration of Zimbabwe as something dreamed and conjured up and struggling its way into reality.

NM: The book is written from the perspective of ‘Zamani’ – the Mlambo Family lodger; why? What does Zamani’s voice tell us that the other characters cannot?

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): Zamani is this high-octane consciousness that was both disturbing and delightful to explore. He is on a very specific and existentialist mission that he makes clear to the reader in the opening sentences: “I am a man on a mission. A vocation, call it, to remake the past, and a wish to fashion all that has been into being and becoming.” In this way, he is not just narrating histories, he is reshaping history (or at least attempting to) with the aim of arriving at a different place to his present. The cumulative effect of his mission may well be something beyond him, which builds up and takes a life of its own in the novel.

NM: The battle in Zimbabwe is in large part over its histories. This quote reminds me of what anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot speaks about…that history is the fruit of power, but power itself is never so transparent that its analysis becomes superfluous. How is this work of fiction been able to navigate its way through the different power dynamics in Zimbabwe’s history while also revealing them?

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): I love Trouillot’s work. I’m actually re-reading his meditations on history in his seminal book —Silencing The Past: Power and the Production of History. There is a multiplicity of voices in House of Stone which is being discovered, directed and channelled by our storyteller, Zamani. He plumbs the lives of the Mlambos —the family he is living with and the lives of everyone close to them; such as the white farmer Thornton, his surrogate father Abednego, Mlambo’s intellectual brother Zacchaeus, and even the dark terror who calls himself Black Jesus. This tension between multiple voices expressing different experiences of the world, which at times overlap, contradict, build upon and complicate one another provides a healthy tension and a chorus of perspectives on history and power.

NM: The synopsis of the novel mentions: He ingratiates himself with Agnes and feeds alcoholic Abednego’s addiction, desperate to extract their life stories and steep himself in borrowed family history…

I’m interested in this idea of borrowed histories, especially because it has so many faces to it. Can you expand on how you think of this notion in the context of  this book and in the context of Zimbabwe’s history?

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): Yes, it’s very interesting how we come into an intimate relationship with our histories, isn’t it? I would go a step further and say Zamani is not just interested in steeping himself in borrowed history, but in doing so until that history becomes his. It is a profound act of faith, the act of speaking oneself into, and believing oneself into existence. Trouillot’s notion about pastness as a position and about us being the contemporaries of history comes to mind—because we access history and memories in our present in ways that go beyond our first-hand experiences of that history and we use that history to shape our (collective) identities. Commemorating historical battles we never experienced and participating in the narratives of those histories, which many times become sacred and very personal, is an example of this. Zimbabwe is deeply embroiled in such projects —as is any space trying to recover from colonialism. Yet, the very act of reclaiming history is political and is very much about wielding power over the present reality and future collective dreams. We see how the past can be edited, manipulated or erased for these purposes in how national history becomes exclusionary and autocratic. In spite of this, the act of revisiting history is an important and indispensable one for any society or people. Zamani is engaged in this very act, of revisiting history, in this way offering and opening alternative ways of entering, engaging with and redirecting this history —ways which trouble Zimbabwe’s mainstream narrative of history.

NM: In terms of process, I’m interested in how you had to think through writing this book; telling the story of a nation’s history through a very personal account. 

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): It was a colossal undertaking, as you can imagine. I worked through seventeen drafts of the novel. The process was informed by my reading and research. It became evident as I read different texts on our history—from history books to novels to oral accounts—how national history is very personal, particularly in places like Zimbabwe that have gone through colonialism. The process of building national identity is also a process of re-inscribing personal identity and there are so many interesting and inevitable tensions in such a process. I discovered varying and at times contradicting versions of the same historical period—such as ex Rhodesians’ memories of the liberation struggle versus Black Africans’ memories of these events. It became important for me that these voices be in conversation, hence the multiplicity of voices in the novel. At the same time, Zamani became an indispensable arranging consciousness; as the novel project took on a life of its own it became evident that it was narrating not only history but also interrogating how that history is made, how it comes to us and how we come to accept it.

NM: Stylistically, I’m interested in how the book is organised; what is the thread that weaves the edges of each of the three books? 

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (NRT): Each book represents a shift in gears for Zamani as he grapples with history and comes up against obstacles in realising his ambitions.  In Book One, Zamani concentrates his energies on getting Abednego to give up his reluctant and difficult history. In Book Two, he turns his attention to Mama Agnes, wielding his charm to seduce her into giving up the history he so desperately needs to consume, process and synthesize. However, life happens and he finds himself faced with obstacles. Book Three gives us more insight into Zamani —his history and his motivations. These are the edges of the book and in this structure is an interweaving of stories, ideas, philosophies, ponderings, struggles and dreams.

NM: I’m interested in this idea of silencing the past: at what age did you learn about Gukurahundi?

NRT: Growing up, Gukurahundi was something we knew about but did not know, if that makes sense. It was always in the background—you’d hear whispers here and there about this terrible time during the 80s, right after Zimbabwe’s independence, but talking about that time or even acknowledging it was associated with danger. It was framed as something divisive perpetrated by trouble-makers; those with bad intentions who wanted to divide rather than unite the country. Thus, the act of looking away was compelling. The psychology of it all is very important, I think, because it sheds light on how there has always been great resistance to acknowledging the genocide in Zimbabwe.

NM: In terms of process again; what texts, conversations, pieces of knowledge or other material did you find particularly useful in writing this book?

NRT: I found speaking to my family incredibly useful, not just for what they shared, but also for what they could not share. Those silences, particularly around Gukurahundi, helped me shape the novel and informed my understanding of how history operates and how it is very present in our lives. I eavesdropped on conversations between ex-Rhodesians on their Facebook Pages, and that was useful in helping me think about that period of our country, before independence. The Catholic Church Commission Report on Gukurahundi which was compiled in 1997—about a decade after the genocide—was one of the most harrowing and profound documents. War fiction novels such as The Non-believer’s Journey by Stanley Nyamfukudza were invaluable. Works such as The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass, Carlos Emilio Gadda’s That Awful Mess on the Via Merulana, Dambudzo Marechera’s House of Hunger and Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children were crucial —they helped me think about what I was trying to do with Zimbabwe in House of Stone. And finally, the concept of humor and the range of emotions it can facilitate for us when dealing with colossal histories and events was important for this project. Many readers tell me they opened the novel expecting something very sombre, and were pleasantly surprised by how much they laughed. The surprise and pleasure of laughter and what it can bring forth in the human psyche and in the human spirit, was something I thought about when writing this work.

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The formal composition of the paintings lend them a traditional, almost anachronistic feeling that is interrupted by the artist’s contemporary clothes, intricately patterned fabrics often bearing the insignia of fake fashion brands commonly found at local street markets. The artist’s focus on beauty is also manifested in the plants, flowers and accessories that his subjects hold or are surrounded by. Samson’s works speak to his pride as a young African man, while at the same time a looming darkness permeates the paintings, suggestive of something more ominous.

We had the chance to meet the artist in his current studio in Cape Town. Discover this meeting in the video below.

Cinga Samson is a very touching, sensitive and sincere visual artist. It was with an extreme timidity and softness that he told us that his works are the result of a questioning about masculinity and Africanity, a questioning above all aesthetic without any real search for an answer. He shared with us a personal conviction and the role that art can play in our contemporary societies, although his art is not involved in any political or racial movement.

To date, Samson has held three solo exhibitions at blank projects: Safari Fantasy (2017), Ubugqoboka Magqoboka (2016) and Thirty Pieces of Silver (2015). He has participated in several group shows, including Mapping Black Identities (Minneapolis Institute of Art, Minneapolis, 2019); Hacer Noche (Centro Cultural Santo Domingo, Oaxaca de Juarez, 2018); open agenda (blank projects, Cape Town, 2018); A Painting Today (Stevenson, Cape Town, 2017); In the night I remember (Stevenson, Johannesburg, 2013); Our Fathers (AVA Gallery, Cape Town, 2012) and Strata at Greatmore Studios in Cape Town (2011), where he completed a residency. In 2017, Samson won the prestigious Tollman Award, and in 2018 he exhibited with Nicholas Hlobo at the Maitland Institute, in a two-person show titled Umthamo.

Cinga Samson is represented by Blank Project.

www.blankprojects.com

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he events of June 16, 1976 are well documented in South Africa —on that fateful morning a group of students across South Africa led demonstrations against the Bantu Education, specifically the use of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction. Hundreds of school kids were shot and killed by the apartheid government in what would later be known as “the 1976 Uprising” or the “Soweto Uprising”.

Most documentation of this historical event is deficient in that a) it only focuses on Soweto while excluding and erasing other locations where protests took place and b) it documents the Uprising as a singular specific moment that happened very quickly. The reality is that demonstrations were widespread and took place across the entire country and students had in fact been organising and raising consciousness months before this event.

In 2017, filmmaker Sifiso Khanyile released the documentary; Uprize!—an unmasking of how South African students embarked on cultural resistance to challenge an unjust and oppressive apartheid government. Two years after its release, I was quite interested in reflecting on the process of making the documentary, particularly in relation to archiving and documentation; how do we record critical historical events and how can these documents and records later be used? Who owns the archive and to what extent do they possess the power of translation and re-interpretation?

Below is my interview with the filmmaker.

Nkgopoleng Moloi (NM): In making Uprize!, what portion of the footage was archival material?

Sifiso Khanyile (SK): The archival footage takes up a large part of the documentary. I’d say about 35% of total duration of the film. Not as much as intended initially as licensing fees for archives became a huge hurdle for us in our selection process, we had to curb our excitement and work with what we could afford. 

NM: What was the process of getting to that material? 

SK: I had to brief my archive researcher on the sort of images I was looking for and the feeling I wanted them to invoke while keeping in mind the politics of the image, i.e. how these images portray their subjects, are they triumphant or defeated, organised or disorderly, etc. We cast a wide net and through the process of elimination we made our choice —taking into account costs, accessibility and the extent to which these images had been previously distributed and seen (we didn’t want to use images audiences were desensitised to).

NM: Which organisations did you engage with to gain access to that imagery?

SK: Villon Films, ITN Source, SABC Archives, AP Archives, Independent Media, Chris Austin, Times Media, UCT Press, Reuters, Mnet —quite a few. I’ve been working with archives from about 2012 and therefore quite aware of photo and video costs. Initially we planned on using more archival footage but had to concede that we could not afford it all. The strategy shifted towards sourcing generic images with local sources [mainly the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) ]. We also had access to some rare/ exclusive record of historical moments which we used economically.

NM: How did you know what material you were looking for? Was this a process of mapping out historical events and finding what related to that or more a process of looking through records that exist & deciding what seems useful? 

SK: I have been researching and writing on different anti-apartheid cultural resistance movements for a while. In 2012 I produced Prisoner 46764: The Untold Legacy of Andrew Mlangeni —this was a documentary on struggle stalwart Andrew Mlangeni. For that documentary, we worked with a lot of political history archives, during this time I was also a news producer for an American Network; sourcing archival footage related to Nelson Mandela, apartheid and the early 90s political transition.

NM:Is there a discrepancy in terms of access between what is documented across different mediums; for instance, are images easier to come by compared to formal documents, certificates, deeds, etc?

SK: I think it all depends on what you’re looking for and what story you are working on. There may be tons of court papers for one story and no images, and vice versa.

We have a complicated past and in some instances records were in fact destroyed or damaged —sometimes this erasure becomes the story. This also speaks to the materiality of the archive, what was it shot/filmed on and how it was preserved and if there were any restorations done. Another key consideration is; who had the resources as the events were unfolding? For instance, SABC TV was only introduced un 1975, this means not much film and video newsreel archive exist before this time. Most of our video archives for periods before 1975 are sitting outside of the country.

NM: Were there specific moments that shocked you when you reconciled your own memories of events vs what you found out through research (specifically around 1976)? 

SK: I was not born yet when ’76 happened therefore I draw from what is public ( how the story has been documented and shaped). I discovered that history is not static, there is always room to present a different view. Objects that might have served a specific purposes might go obsolete, leaving a lot of space for alternative narratives. I was interested in the finer details of the ’76 story, the specific roles that shaped the events.

NM: Which institutions are doing a good job un documenting history as it happens?

SK: The news networks  and agencies are great for the TV and video documentary space, both local and international. I’ve come across some great personal archives from filmmaker and photographer friends  who constantly want to capture the zeitgeist of this country without necessarily making this an assignment. Writers are what connect me to most stories in the first place and their role is pivotal in how we engage with history.

NM: What practices do you have for documenting your own personal history? Why does this matter?

SK: I’ve been thinking more about this since the birth of my son. A profound sense of mortality confronted me. I had questions about the kind of legacy I want to leave for him. I remember gathering and storing images from my travels, talks, my writings, TV and radio interview clips, etc. I found videos I had shot at family events over a decade ago and was reminded how my journey in film started. For the first time in a while I felt like the lens was turning away from what I want to capture as a documentary filmmaker and towards me and my story.

I felt an urge create more work —to write and document my story, for posterity, so that my son can have a better understanding of who I am when he can no longer have access to me.

NM: What are your thoughts on dramatisation in historical documentaries —were filmmakers re-enact scenes where they do not have actual imagery of the events?

SK: There are stories that have to survive, one way or another. There are individuals whose impact on society needs to be celebrated — Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe is one of them. It is a great tragedy that a lot of his records were destroyed. Filmmakers and storytellers have to find ways of keeping his memory alive. Film is a visual medium that mostly relies on audience engagement for its success. This is one of the instances where re-enactments become necessary, not just for dramatic value, but to capture the spirit of a person or event.

NM: What is the starting point in approaching a historical documentaries? For instance if I wanted to think through Marikana Massacre or Fees Must Fall Movement …where would I begin? 

SK: Start by questioning your own intentions, your perspective, your relationship or connection to the stories or people whose lives you want to document. What are the burning issues? What are you telling us that we don’t know? The film can also be an exploration or voyage of discovery for a different generation. Start by conducting a lot of research; writing an outline for your idea and constantly refining your story.Look for funding but also see what you can do while waiting for funds. Plan everything, map out how you want to approach the film’s aesthetics, your position in the film, who you want to speak to and how you’re going to gain access to those people. Reach out to people you want to see in the film to gauge their interest and to test the strength of the idea. The idea needs to be clear in your head and then on paper, before you consider filming anything.

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Joe Turpin is a young South African artist exploring the depths of art through historical narratives, semiotics and the expansion of his painting practice. He is drawn to the politics of positionality; investigating what it means to be a young white man, an African, an emerging artist —often drawing on his Jewish heritage to explore concepts of migration and persecution, identity and cultural paradigms.

Turpin graduated from the University of the Witwatersrand in 2018 with a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Fine Art. He currently works and lives in the city of Johannesburg.

The interview below is one of multiple interviews I have conducted with the artist as I have followed his artistic practice though a number of years.

Nkgopoleng Moloi (NM): How has your degree prepared you for the art world (if at all)? 

Joe Turpin (JT): I think my degree has prepared me in the amount of information and learning I was able to access, as well as the people and places I met and found out about. I definitely feel like I would be behind had I not studied. The skills taught are also valuable to my practice.

NM: How are you thinking of framing your practice now that you are outside a formal structure – in terms of time, concepts etc? 

JT: Well, I think that I make work when I have the time, and I try to do that as often as I can, and when I have the materials. But there are freedoms and constraints… I no longer have a studio space, which I had a year ago, but I also don’t make work for art school deadlines anymore. I have my own deadlines.

I am also finding myself less worried about people’s attitudes towards my work. My concepts and interests simultaneously evolve and stay the same in a sense —a keen interest in mythology and in history.

NM: I want to find out your thoughts on the concept of time —given that so much of your work deals with history and trying to understand that history?

JT: I have understood for a while that time is not linear, but this is simply how people (including myself) perceive it. I believe time moves in cycles as we change and grow. From an early age I understood this construct, as we would celebrate Jewish holidays under the lunisolar calendar, which tells me that the year is now 5779 ( and not 2019 as per the Gregorian Calendar). I sometimes feel it —during certain times of the year, seasons when the light looks the same as a memory I had in that same season (previously)… the people around me at that time or smells are evoked again. It means that the passage of time has repeated and reached me again. Only now the people are gone and I am older, and hopefully wiser.

NM: Can you tell me about your process of naming works?

JT:  I name my works according to the moments that are depicted within them. It is similar to how a musician decides to name a song, or an author to name a book.

What is a fitting description, and what do I think of or see when I imagine the work?

If the painting is about a myth, then the myth’s name, or the characters, or the exact angle or moment I paint —All of these might surface in the name. Some of the works are untitled. It is not a long or stringed process. I always document the names. Naming is power.

NM: Your practice spans various mediums, what is the medium you keep being drawn to & why do you think that is? 

JT: I am constantly drawn to painting, but I love working with whatever I need to. Sometimes a work will demand a medium from me. That’s another area where art school really helped me —I previously saw myself as a painter but now my work is broader; I have done video, installation, photography, a combination……..but I return to painting. It’s my passion, what I fell in love with, and it’s where I think I have so much more growing to do. I’m harder on myself when I paint. But it’s meditative, it’s soothing, controlling and yet very freeing.

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Dennis recently presented his second solo show with the Goodman Gallery in Cape Town; “Options” (24th January – 9th March 2019),  comprising a new series of drawings and installations. These drawings convey an intense process of gesturing and mark making —incisions revealing complex patterns and points moving in space.

One is not quite certain what is depicted in Dennis’ drawings; are these intestine, worms or unspecified worm-like shapes ?

The artist complicates iconography, notions of “finished work” as well as the one-directional nature of the art making process (with artist as teacher and viewer as learner). His work is open but not hollow—this openness of the work exposes itself to misreading and misinterpretation. Dennis uses the work’s vulnerability to misinterpretation as an opportunity for new knowledge to enter the space; where the viewer/interpreter takes on the role of “completing” the artworks. In this sense, the work’s impact can only be multiplied as each new set of eyes creates a possibility for a new narrative to emerge.

I had the opportunity to briefly interview the artist about his process as well as his  reflections on the recent show.

Nkgopoleng Moloi: I’m interested in this idea of using drawing as a way to think about something else, while simultaneously being the actual thing. What is your relationship with different mediums, how you approach them and how you use them to say (or not say) different things ?

Nolan Oswald Dennis: I was thinking about Audre Lorde’s idea — the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. And I was thinking about when a tool stops being the master’s tool and becomes your tool? What kind of transformation must happen to give these tools the capacity to dismantle houses ? I think of the media I work with in similar ways. Who does this belong to? What can it do ? What do I need to do for it do something else ?

This is mostly an unspectacular process, and in my practice consists mostly of small gestures for holding secrets: marks, notations, clues. I want the work to be open to misreading as both a tactic for concealing things in the work (world) as well as a way of revealing things in the viewer.

NM: I have read a couple of articles of your last show; “Options”, each one is different and interprets the work differently. What is your view on this openness with which we are reading your work? 

NOD: I think the work is only halfway done until it is read —the question is always who is reading, and therefore who is doing the other half of the work?

It’s actually a huge responsibility to put on a reader/viewer, to demand that they put themselves into the work. I’m all about leaving some space which demands filling — the idea that to “see” the work requires you to first put something of yourself into the work. The viewer must start with an interpretation before they can “see” the work, not after they see it. I think what you see is also an invitation to share the labour of making this art work.

NM: Susan Sontag speaks of this idea of needing to interpret artworks, that we can often do it at the expense of the form; placing too much attention on what we think the work means vs what the work is, especially in terms of materiality etc. What  are your thoughts? 

NOD: I guess I am interested in those forms, in terms of materiality and technique, which are already inadequate. What I mean is that some forms (drawings, models and maquettes ) already assume that they must be interpreted —that they are working forms and not final forms. The materiality of an architectural model is only a simulation of whatever concrete or brick structure might ultimately be built. So formal questions become themselves interpretive —you have to ask yourself on the level of the material; what does this cardboard mean?

For me that’s an important place to occupy —the place before or parallel to the real world. It’s a place that allows asks us to do some interpretive work.  I think art is important for its ability to operate from this parallel position where little can be taken for granted. It’s a place where things can be remade, and I think it’s interesting to think about how things can be both one thing (materially) and a totally different thing (interpretively)……that objects can have this double life.

NM: Can you explain how the printers installation in the exhibition work on a technical level (Biko vs Fanon and Winnie Mandela) ?

NOD: The first part of the work is research to build the dataset. In the case of Biko/Fanon, that means reading “I write what I like” and “The Wretched of the Earth” and extracting every sentence with the words ‘touch’ and ‘hold’.  This is then converted into two long lists of sentences. 

The second part is writing an algorithm which selects sentences from this dataset and produces new sequences as an ongoing poetic conversation. Part of what this algorithm does is recombine the sentences based on a number derived from the ambient noise (static) in the room where the printer is placed.

There are two printers which run this code in real time, reading text from the dataset and combining it in a sequence read from the electrical noise of where it is installed. The printer then prints, on roll of thermal receipt paper, an ongoing conversation between Steve Biko and Franz Fanon about touching and holding. 

Nomzamo is a single printer which does a similar thing with the archive of Winnie Mandela, except she is alone, having a dialogue with no-one (or everyone) based on the words ‘before’, ‘between’ and ‘alone’.

NM: I’m interested in this concept of Ubuntu vs black loneliness as you speak of it. When we experience one and not the other or both simultaneously etc. Can you elaborate on your thinking through this? 

NOD: I guess it is something I’m still working through; Ubuntu as a theory of radical interconnectedness and Biko’s declaration “black man you’re on your own” as a kind of radical loneliness. I’m interested in how these two concepts work together—as a dialectic of black consciousness. And also how they are both theories of love and theories from love. Radical empathy and radical entropy, a tactic of black entanglement.

NM: What texts are you currently reading or engaging with that are informing your thoughts/work?

NOD: I’m always reading Angel Kyodo William’s “Being Black” about black zen practice.

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