Johannesburg Art Gallery
17.03 - 07.07.2024

“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;

It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn; 

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.”

William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The walls of the Johannesburg Art Gallery had been painted shades of pink, with a slight maroon undertone, to match the works of Tatenda Magaisa’s most recent solo show, It wearies me; you say it wearies you. The title of the exhibition is a reference to a line from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice and seems fitting in the context of the works. According to the text in the accompanying catalogue, “[i]t’s a line that Magaisa feels aptly evokes the prevailing sadness and fatigue of modern existence.” Magaisa explores what it means to be a black female artist in the South African contemporary art industry and meditates on her own practice within this unique context, as well as how black women artists are disregarded and ignored in different ways. The exhibition features works that are at once melancholic and humorous, providing the viewer with an interesting dichotomy – the artist seems to be poking fun at and highlighting the failings of the current art industry, while also rejecting the normative expectation that South African art has to be ‘serious’ all the time. Magaisa provides a refreshing balance between art that clearly addresses socio-political issues, while also interspersing it with works that are wistful and whimsical, exploring the bizarre and the otherworldly.

In her works, “Magaisa at times attempts to speak more specifically to the alienation often experienced by Black African women”. This can be seen in her many visual explorations, where an unknown “looming presence of antagonism” seems to have conquered Magaisa’s subjects. While certain aspects of the exhibition are playful and absurd, others are more outwardly cynical and disturbing, presenting the viewer with an interesting interplay between these two contrasting visual narratives.

Magaisa’s works seemed to mostly follow a colour palette of pinks, reds, white and black, with occasional blues and lilacs. One of the accompanying texts describes how “Magaisa’s use of colour creates a narrative map that begins with a restful, yet alluring pull into a calm engagement that draws the viewer slowly into a state of otherworldliness and overwhelm.” Gradually, the exhibition became more bizarre, culminating with two video artworks, projected onto adjacent walls of a darkened gallery room. 

Magaisa seems to use her art practice as a form of escapism – all the artworks have an ethereal quality to them that makes them feel unearthly as if the viewer has stepped into the artist’s internal world. In Warped zones. Harsh vibes, a desolate hill takes up half the frame, a red sky behind it. On the very top of the hill, a shadowy figure sits alone, almost camouflaged against the background. The image draws the viewer’s attention to the isolation of the lone figure, while the use of the colloquial ‘Harsh vibes’ in the title invokes a slight light-heartedness. And in Full scream ahead, a tiny figure is seen running across a large maroon plane, seemingly headed towards an equally small house in the distance. A speech bubble has the word ‘heh’ written in it, imbuing the painting with an almost cartoon-like quality. In one of the video artworks, abstract pink, red and orange shapes float in the background while bizarre subtitles narrate an increasingly absurd story. Occasionally, the subtitles borrow popular phrasing from contemporary internet culture: “She’s a ten but she thinks she can escape late stage capitalism by sitting under a tree.” Sometimes, the sentiments are more eery and confronting: “It’s a panic room, a screaming room” or “I want to come out of this alive.”

In The witching hour, a pink sky dominates the canvas, with suburban houses and walls silhouetted against it. The relative absence of people in the image amplifies its eerie mood, emphasising the silence and isolation that usually characterises what is known as ‘the witching hour.’ It is a time for magic and mystery, often associated with the occult and with unsavoury dealings. On closer inspection, one sees that the top window of one of the houses is crowded with hands, reaching skyward and surrounded by what looks like pink fire. These reaching hands are a prominent recurring motif in many of the works for It wearies me; you say it wearies you. In this way, the juxtapositions between fantasy and reality, whimsy and melancholy become realised. In Know your place, bloodied hands reach from behind a partially closed doorway, perhaps indicating the many doors (both real and metaphorical) that are closed to black female creative practitioners. The colours of the artwork follow the same pattern as the others, with soft pinks and lilacs covering most of the canvas, broken only by a darkened doorway. The sinister statement in the title, ‘know your place,’ is a chilling reminder that certain oppressive sentiments are still at play in the art world, particularly where black female artists are concerned. 

In some of the works, this darker, more serious subject matter is more overt. In I hope, I hope, I hope… a red handprint centres the image with the words, ‘I hope’ written repeatedly in the background. The crimson paint seems to symbolise blood, leaving the viewer wondering at the fate of the painting’s unknown subject. The bloody handprint suggests a struggle of some kind – fighting against an unknown adversary, but still succumbing to an unfortunate fate. The use of the word ‘hope’ then becomes almost contradictory, and the image is rendered bittersweet. In another artwork, Magaisa poses the question, “To whom do we bequeath our bones?” This is a direct reference to the buying and reselling of contemporary African art by private collectors, and it highlights the lack of protections which exist for artists in the industry. In the text accompanying the artwork To whom do we bequeath our bones? Magaisa writes: “What happens to that work when it is no longer in our hands?”  

In You want what’s ours, not us, a canvas is covered with matte stripes of colour – deep browns, tan, maroon and black. Over this backdrop, the words, ‘you want what’s ours, not us,’ are printed in white. The work was created in response to the language that is used by viewers, critics and collectors when engaging with art by African practitioners. In the text accompanying the artwork, Magaisa writes, “behind these agendas of collection and interest, often lies a hollow lack of interest in sustainable or meaningful engagement.” In this way, Magaisa calls attention to the fact that consumers of African contemporary art often don’t seem truly interested in the artists as individuals, nor in the works as independent explorations. Rather, the interest seems lacking in depth and earnestness – the artist is consumed as a generic archetype, manufactured out of the expectations and assumptions of the consumer. 

With this solo exhibition, Magaisa provides biting, necessary commentary on the art industry in South Africa. It wearies me; you say it wearies you is an exploration of what it means to be an artist in our current socio-political climate. While certain works seem more light-hearted at first, on closer inspection, the entire exhibition investigates ideas of exclusion and isolation. The unknown figures that feature in many of the works seem lost, drowning, isolated, reaching for something they cannot grasp. It is this sentiment that haunted me long after I had left the exhibition.