This article is part of The Visual Art of Creating Beyond the Apartheid Imagination program, funded by the National Arts Council in 2024 and implemented by Lukho Witbooi and Zimkitha Xwashu for Gallery Chosi. The program is a developmental initiative that reimagines art and identity by transcending the divisions and constraints of apartheid, embracing freedom, complexity, and new possibilities.
The difficulty of being bilingual is that you may end up not being fluent in either language. However, you gain the freedom to express yourself in your speech and conversations, and the freedom to navigate different cultural environments, namely predominantly white English-speaking or black Xhosa-speaking. As I have matured and continued to grow as a person and an artist, I am less concerned about the limitations of not being fully fluent in either isiXhosa or English, as I am aware of my unique ability to hold space in both identities.
This freedom of movement which I define as – spatial heteromorphism, a plant strategy where a single plant produces multiple types of seeds with different characteristics, has broadened the approaches I use when it comes to my artistic practice. Take the narrative of migration, for instance. It is preoccupied with the notion that one must escape the “primitive” rural environment in which one was born and raised, neglecting the opportunity to create and embrace the narratives of where one comes from. I have realised there are opportunities for new narratives to emerge from where I come from, and I integrate these new perspectives into my work.
Take cow dung sourced directly from ubhlanti baMakhulu wam (my grandmother’s kraal). Traditionally used for flooring or wall decoration in many African cultures, cow dung carries deep cultural significance. By reimagining it as a painting medium, I reconnect with this indigenous practice and integrate it into contemporary art. In my work, cow dung blends with traditional Western materials like acrylic, watercolor, and oil paint, creating a dialogue between different artistic languages. For me, cow dung becomes both a medium and a representation of the Eastern Cape landscape from which it was sourced. As it moves from a rural setting to the white walls of a gallery, the material embodies a journey—reflecting themes of migration and cultural adaptation. This transformation speaks to the artistic process itself: collecting, handling, and applying the material becomes an act of cultural performance and documentation. This artistic journey mirrors the multiplicity of languages I navigate. Just as I move between isiXhosa and English, my art traverses between indigenous traditions and modern techniques, representing a continuous dialogue between identities and histories. This process captures not just the change in materials but also the evolving language of art, reflecting broader shifts in culture and identity over time. However, art sometimes also finds its inspiration from obstacles. Here I am reminded about the application process I made for a Post Graduate Degree where I encountered the question, “What is your home language?” The question gave me pause because it feels rhetorical when applying to an English-medium institution. The question seems rhetorical because the obvious answer expected is English, despite the response written, the medium of instruction and official communication with the Institution is likely to remain English.
Zethu Cakata, a professor in the Department of Psychology at the University of South Africa, argues that “Language is an integral part of knowledge; thus, culture relies on language for transmission.” This emphasizes that one’s very essence is tied to culture, and language is necessary as a conduit for articulating that culture.
One work I made is called Icango lwase Hlabathi, It is an articulation of a cultural practice through labour and the specific shared nostalgia of cultural motifs like the front door of a mud house and a thatched roof. This artwork is one of the first and only works of mine that I have never had to explain to a fellow black person, and that to me as an artist reads as significant. I have managed to tap into a shared language. Ukusinda, which is an isiXhosa word that means “to survive” “a heavy burden” or in the context that I work which it refers to, is the act of flooring using cow dung. There is a natural connection that can be made between the colour and texture of cow dung being similar to the material used to make a mud house and the knowledge that ukusinda is an act performed in that space.
Perhaps even more important is the content of the art. There is, Umgidi ka Thando no Phelo, an artwork that depicts slaughtering, making use of the painting with cow dung technique without the language to contexualise it. It runs the risk of making the work that I make seem sensational or morbid if one discounts the spiritual significance of such practices, but it also reflects the idea of language itself as spiritual and the consequences of its erasure due to cultural shifts. When one honours the ancestors there is no other language one can use other than their mother tongue and this is one of the reasons I have chosen to title my work in isiXhosa.
“The Door Frame” eCebe a small village outside Centane in Eastern Cape, 2023. Photograph taken by Yolo Mantiyane
It took a three-hour bus trip, a taxi, and then a two-plus-hour ride in the back of a bakkie along some notable unpaved roads from my university in Makhanda to find a picture of a door frame that ended up being research material during my final year of a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. At that moment I could not help but reflect on how I am a product of generations of Black people raised in kwikhayakhulu (homeland) and while a photograph offers its own form of a portal. Thus, when I began working on Icango lwase Hlabathi it was from an understanding that I too in a sense am performing a rite acknowledging that while these spaces in rural spaces are being abandoned by those who once lived there it is always important to remember that this space functioned as home. I also find it disheartening that few stories depict the lives of those left behind in rural areas as this process of erasure occurs. This indicates that the narrative we know is incomplete, with the focus on urban life and urban struggles above those of the people who are left behind. The intersected process of creating the work illustrates that one can still learn and take inspiration from indigenous knowledge systems and how these can be applied both to daily life and artistic practice.
The complexity of notions of access is something of interest to me because it intersects with my multifaceted identity. Often, access to resources is readily attributed to being part of institutions such as universities, especially if those universities have a history of excluding people from racialized populations like myself. However, I am more interested in the idea that there are places, such as those in rural areas like eCebe, that require active efforts to gain access, which is a form of care. There is a need for an understanding of this culture, language, and tradition, and not let it be erased as sometimes happens due to years of education and being absorbed into predominantly white institutions.
