Wits Art Museum
15.08 - 14.10.2023
It is a Wednesday night in Johannesburg. I enter Wits Arts Museum for the opening of Thonton Kabeya’s exhibition Introspect. Thonton and I met at The Bag Factory Artist Studios in 2017, and we have not seen each other in five years. I spot him towering over the crowd in a navy suit. Soon, he recognises me and shakes my hand before being whisked away, but we agree to make time for an interview. Introspect, as the title suggests, is about reflection and, since this work reflects the 10 years it’s taken for him to put this show together, we do just that.
Lukho Witbooi: I was new to art writing when we first met. Your work, along with Onyis Martin, introduced me to the idea of Spirit in art. Now, I am curious about another recurring theme throughout your work: childhood.
Thonton Kabeya: My childhood had a big role in me becoming the man that I am today. There is nothing I can think of as a built material without my childhood memories, but also because I have a twin, I never met except through dreams. I went through a lot of rituals to fix that. This is how I was introduced to spirituality.
Oh, yes. I recall you mentioned a twin that died in the womb.
No. You should not say that the twin died. He disappeared. Evaporated. It is hard to express the same sentiment in English. He was never born, and this distinction is important. Mama was expecting twins, but after doing a routine check-up, she was told that one had evaporated. In Congo, it is a common experience, but this was a secret that was kept from me until later when I started having dreams and was scared to sleep. This happened every day for a period of four or five years.
How old were you when it started?
I was five when the dream started and it happened until I was nine. I told Mama about the dream I had. Then, she told me about the twin. Then, after consulting the elders and the holders of traditional knowledge, there was a ceremony where the relevant rituals were performed. But uMama did not participate and neither did I.
What kind of dreams?
Well, the dream itself is blurred. But there was a child who wanted to play with me even though I did not recognise him. I tried to run and pushed him. It was not until I told Mama about the experience that I saw him clearly, and it was like I was looking at myself. So, in a sense, this is the spiritual background. At the same time, I went through an experience of the genocide in Congo. This is the reason that childhood memories are often revisited in my work. We were told to evacuate Lumumbashi and go to Kasai, the land of my father. Imagine being told to leave Johannesburg for Limpopo or Cape Town because your neighbours want to burn your house. But we were luckier than most because we were in a big city, but some of my cousins were outside the city. This, of course, made them more vulnerable and they were attacked. They were stripped of all their possessions and put on a train to Kasai. The train could take six months to travel, and three of my cousin’s kids died en route. So this is something I knew about her before we even met. In 2006, she came back to Mumbashi after 12 years, and she had three kids. There is no reason for this to have some kind of meaning, but I am sharing this to illustrate how bad things got.
Thonton Kabeya, Kasala, Inner City Blues (Polyptych), 2023. Courtesy of Wits Art Museum and Everard Read.
I understand. It does give more depth to the works to see them through this lens. But the works are light and hopeful. Is it safe to assume that these works illustrate moments that precede this experience?
Yes. I mean the figures have a tight bond of friendship. But then, the same neighbour who was a friend then starts seeing you as a cockroach and does not want to be seen with you. So there is an exploration and nostalgia for the peaceful relationship of childhood. In these particular works, there is a meditation of a time before the conflict.
You have often spoken about the fact that your method for sculpting canvas with water is not something you want to reveal. But you have also said that part of your practice revolves around engaging with the idea of how our art would have developed without the interruption of the West. Please reflect on this.
Sometimes, when a writer writes about African artists, they always refer to the masters from Europe, as if our art began after the colonial period. So when I do walkabouts, one of the things I like to speak about is the idea of the Spiral, which is one of the three elements of life. This spiral forms part of the technique I use for sculpting canvas so that, when it dries, it still has this depth, although it’s fragile.
This approach is not often found in Western art practice. So, it is born from how our African ancestors used to make art. It’s also important to note that art itself is not just about beauty or aesthetics. There is a science behind it, and the Spiral itself is an African science behind the work. Once again, it’s this method that allows it to maintain this particular form without support underneath.
What is this Spiral?
It is a line that allows you to build a circle, but that circle never finishes, and the line itself never touches. So it’s never a complete circle. It can be infinitely small or infinitely big.
It is something I would like to read more about.
Not all knowledge is written. I have so many teachers and mentors that I follow on YouTube and podcasts. Most of them are French-speaking Africans like Mbog Basong. He is a chief spiritual person and draws from many different cultures. He is a very Pan-African person and works on the unification of different African spiritualities. He has published a lot of different books, but most of them are in French. He speaks about the pygmies found in Song and Cameroun, the Mali tribes, and other tribes from Burkina Faso. So he does a lot of comparison.
Is this an idea that is important to you? The idea of unifying spirituality in Africa?
No, I think it’s important to recognise and celebrate diversity. The Africans from Congo are not the same as the Africans from KwaZulu-Natal or Dinke or Maasai. We are all black and share some of the same principles, like the Spiral. It is found everywhere. However, the Zulus are warriors and honour their ancestors differently from my people who are not known warriors. I think appreciating and acknowledging similarities and our diversity is important.
Installation view: Thonton Kabeya, Introspect, 2023. Courtesy of Wits Art Museum and Everard Read.
We share an interest in architecture. So both of us have a special relationship to this work. Tell me about your relationship with architecture and how this informed your art practice.
I grew up with a dream to be an Aerospace Engineer. I was good with math and physics. I used to build stuff when I was a kid. However because I had a constant migraine, my parents were advised not to let me pursue this career path. In Congo, some schools prepare you for Engineering in University, so I could not go there. My brother took me to an art school called Académie des Beaux-Arts. I did not know that this was an option, but drawing and playing with clay were things that I did, and then I fell in love with it.
Architecture is in a similar strain as engineering. It is a requirement when it comes to buildings. So working on this piece allowed me to connect to that part of myself again. You know, this cityscape began clean, and then I would destroy it like a child would or someone building dominoes. This method of play is something I like to apply whilst in the studio.
The concept itself, though, shows contrast. You will notice the contradiction between the upper floors of the building and what is going on on the streets. Encountering the work, a person is forced to ask: “Where do these people live?” It should be impossible to live here, but the people on the streets continue to live a normal life. There is no sense of struggle, and I attempt to illustrate them positively. People are shopping, and others are walking their dogs or engaged in conversation. But the question arises again. “Where do these people live?” Now think about how the media portrays Africa. When I speak to Americans, I find some of them scared to come here because, in their imagination, it is a destination where people just kill each other. So there is shock at how much better it is in comparison to the rest of the world.
How did the city of Johannesburg influence this work?
Joburg CBD does form a part of it but so does what is happening in Syria and Congo where I come from. Johannesburg is known for its abandoned buildings, and this is not a result of conflict or war, but it still looks like there was a big war in the CBD. Perhaps there was one of a different kind. So there is an influence due to creating this kind of piece while living here. But the real inspiration is not Johannesburg. It is a more global perspective. You know, Johannesburg is not that much different from Rio de Janeiro or some places in the United States. So it would be unfair to Johannesburg to make that claim.
What kind of people are you interested in representing? Is it perhaps the common struggles of the working class?
I don’t think like that. How do you know this is working class? Mark Zuckerberg dresses like a student, but he is a billionaire. It is more about being human. Of course, I am a black person, and there is more black representation, but there are also white people in the space, like that woman walking there. It’s open. I live in Johannesburg. If I represent Johannesburg, then people will ask me: “Why don’t you represent your home country, Congo?” If I don’t represent Johannesburg, despite being there, it’s the other way around. So it is important to be global.
You’ve been in Johannesburg for 10 years. What was your reason for basing your art practice here?
To learn English. Every other place I’ve worked has been Spanish, French or Swahili-speaking. I thought this is the best place for establishing a practice that allows me to also learn English. Then I began to build my collection and then, seven years ago, the idea came of working on this Introspection show. Thus, building the collection for it almost made it impossible to travel to another country, because these works are so heavy and big. So I came for a different reason, but I stayed for this exhibition.
Well. I’ve just moved here. What are your thoughts on Johannesburg?
Well, it’s a very complex city. It was tough, but I learned a lot. Most of the art community is very strong. I find the architecture of the CBD fascinating, and also the contrast of Johannesburg CDB to being based in Soweto, the fracture of apartheid and how it has transformed to now. So, in doing this show, I do feel like I am a part of the history of contemporary art.
You spoke about the idea of a vision and a re-imagining. These are ideas that resonate with me as an inheritor of a post-apartheid society. How is this reflected in this particular work?
There is an architectural feel to this work, but the real idea is in the title, that is, the title of the series. The series is called Tablet. Here, I go from the realistic representation of a tablet to its abstract representation. Tablet is about the sequence of reality. Reality is made of small sequences. Here, I place bricks to represent tablets in abstract form. If you want to understand the tablet, you need to look at the Malians. For them, in particular, the tablet was a door. It will give information about the specialities of a particular family. Let’s say that you are a traveller, and you enter this village. You will know what it’s about just through the reading of the doors.
Like advertising?
No, it’s more a representation of identity. The tablet doors are like the scarification you find in some cultures that communicate if someone is single or married, or that this person is a hunter and comes from a royal lineage, or is a Sangoma. So what I’ve done is start with a realistic representation by using myself and the things I do. But then, I resume that process of destroying, like I did with the building piece. In this process, I erase that original idea to illustrate how human beings go through this process of erasure and the creation of a new form that might, at first, look wrong and even create chaos around it.
This piece started with five different pieces. Each piece was monochrome. The other was red or green because I created them with bricks. Then I started with removing certain parts of what made the original look beautiful. Thus, here I am using it to illustrate how there is a loss of identity in the process of globalisation.
Thonton Kabeya, Tablet, Kule Ngambo (Triptych), 2023. Courtesy of Wits Arts Museum and Everard Read.
I get it now. The tablets are a source of inspiration that has been transformed into something else.
Yeah. I did emphasise a global approach to the art, but this is reversed, in a sense. Think about how, if a person studies medicine in South Africa but can’t find a job. That person is then forced to go to Australia, and that creates an imbalance.
I see. It makes me sad to think about it. I mean, when I looked at this piece and you described how it looked in its original form, I thought about how, as an audience to this piece, I don’t see the original monochrome tablets, but what is before us now and I realise that, as the world connects and, in a sense, becomes more homogeneous, there are perhaps things that we will never see underneath the surface of what does make it around the world.
Yes. It is that, but also some of the things that are hidden. For example, here I also relate this series to the Fractal. This is something that is found in a lot of African fabrics but also in vegetation. Perhaps a better example is the rose. If you take it apart and then put it back together, it’s not going to be the same. But one can recreate the rose by moving the fractal.
Your work seems to dance between a more realistic representation and an abstract form. Was this something you’ve always done or something new for you?
I don’t see it as being done on purpose. An abstract is not something as easy as it seems. When I do workshops with students or artists, I always give an example of artists who are doing abstract work today and impress on them that these artists come from more realistic forms and know how to draw. I don’t use it as an escape from the lack of drawing ability, like so-called abstract artists who don’t know how to draw or paint. The kind of abstract I do is methodical. To do it, one requires a drawing background and an artistic intellect.
