Iziko South African National Gallery
22.02 - 24.09.2025

Historical discourse shapes the present through inherited signs and symbols that appear to privilege the past over the present. This privileging of certain signs and symbols constructs an illusion that the narratives one encounters upon becoming conscious in the present are the real world. These stories are then recreated in the present, again and again, until the world itself begins to recede into the distance.

This, for me, is the unfortunate triumph of apartheid and, in a sense, how it continues to define our cultural imagination. Its privilege, although important because there is much to learn from the past, also carries dangers. The signs and symbols we grapple with are carriers of meaning that enchant the present with ideas often brought into consciousness as tools for social control and the continued concealment of the real world. This happens because, when we tell stories of our history in South Africa, it is difficult to capture their complexities. The signs and symbols of apartheid or the past more broadly are saturated with pain, struggle, and unresolved trauma. Yet these are still forms and symbols we seek to use for cultural purposes in the present, even though to confront them is to confront danger.

There Is Something I Need to Tell You is a retrospective exhibition by Sue Williamson, curated by Andrew Lamprecht for the Iziko South African National Gallery. The retrospective includes more than 100 artworks spanning a wide range of media, including printmaking, drawing, embroidery, photography, installation, and video. This landmark exhibition occupies eight rooms and the Atrium of the gallery.

This is compelling in itself, as I see museums as spaces where public memory is preserved. In a sense, the exhibition allows us to journey through our histories without becoming trapped in them, which is something that can happen. It feels hopeful because it acknowledges the atrocities of the past, yet within this historical reckoning, there remains a sense of rebirth. What emerges is a body of work that challenges our understanding of time and the narrative the artist has chosen to explore.

For example, the title artwork, There Is Something I Must Tell You, is a digital installation set in a room where screen light gently illuminates the space. The installation comprises five screens. The screen on the far left is in black and white and features unfurling family albums, showing people who have lived full lives and have since passed on. The use of black and white is particularly evocative to me, as it reflects a sense of technological progress while simultaneously evoking a specific moment in time. It suggests the creation of a distinct world with its values, mirroring how we often perceive the past as something inaccessible and as a place we cannot return to, yet which undeniably existed. At the centre are two more screens. One displays a still photograph of a grandmother; the other, placed beside it, shows her granddaughter in a video. At first glance, I assumed the image of the granddaughter was also a photograph, as the artist positioned her in the same spot as her grandmother. But upon closer observation, the slight movement of her clothes in the wind reveals that it is, in fact, a video. This placement is potent. The absence of the middle or skipped generation is striking, highlighting an intergenerational dialogue between past and present. The grandmother appears more rooted in that black-and-white past, while the granddaughter, we hope, symbolises future possibilities.

Finally, two additional screens show the grandmother and granddaughter engaged in conversation. This format repeats six times throughout the installation, featuring not only Black families but also Coloured, White, and Indian individuals affected by the apartheid struggle and includes: Brigalia Bam and her niece, Busiswa, Rebecca Kotane and her granddaughter, Nompumelelo, Illse Fischer Wilson and Thandi Lewin, Caroline Motsoaledia and her granddaughter, Busisiwe; Vesta Smith and her great-granddaughter, Tammy.

These dialogues allow the present generation to make sense of their world and to process the losses and traumas inherited from apartheid. At the same time, they suggest the emergence of new possibilities, futures rooted in seeds planted long ago.

The best stories involve death, though not always a literal one. Often, it is the death of the ego. This is an archetypal pattern shared across cultures. Death also represents a loosening from the mortal coil, especially when considering how the colonial materialisation of the world has enforced separation and difference. This is the first thought that comes to mind when I see the replica of a gravesite with a photograph of an elderly Black woman. This is Annie Silinga, who was a leader in the anti-apartheid movement of the 1950s. As President of the Cape Town African National Congress, she helped organise the 1956 Women’s March to Pretoria in protest against the pass laws. She was a defendant in the 1956 Treason Trial. She refused to carry a passbook, declaring she would not do so “until the Prime Minister’s wife does.”

Behind the gravesite, a black and white photograph of Langa Cemetery covers the wall. One can see the original gravestone that Williamson created in honour of Silinga. The curator, Lamprecht, asked the artist to produce it specifically for this exhibition. Here it rests on a mound of dirt. Inside  an enclosed space are hundreds of white stone and on top of them are flowers made of paper, enclosed in glass globes. The metal grave railings carry the bold inscription: I will never carry a pass.

As a resident of Langa, this piece carries added extra meaning for me. The decision to live freely, even before the world has allowed one to realise their freedom, is something that resonates deeply. I also reflect on all those buried there, including my grandparents. It is where I too will be buried.

Our cosmologies as Africans were used as justifications for colonisation. Yet for me, the idea of connecting to one’s ancestors is profoundly meaningful. It is a way of honouring those who came before us and of living with a sense of responsibility, knowing their time was finite just as ours is. People like Annie Silinga said, ‘I will not carry a pass’, at the most oppressive time in our history. That refusal challenged dominating narratives and allows us to create possibilities for shared freedom.

Room 9 is titled Africa and Its Colonizers. While the concept of colonisation is a familiar narrative, the artworks in this space reveal aspects of South African history that have not occupied enough space in the public imagination. In part, this is because the spirit of apartheid continues to dominate that space. War and death are shared aspects of human destiny, realities that one would hope might lead humans to deeper understanding. But perhaps share a trait of being beyond our control.

One of the featured works in this room is Towards Another World. According to the artist’s statement, it reflects “images from the Anglo-Boer War of 1899–1902.” These are historical photographs of concentration camps established during the war when Queen Victoria sent 500,000 soldiers to subdue the Boer Republics and reassert control over her empire, just after gold had been discovered in the Transvaal. Under her ‘scorched earth’ policy, Boer homes and farms were burned, the men were sent to camps in other British colonies, and the women and children were confined to over 40 camps across South Africa. In these camps, 23,670 people died of disease or starvation. The inclusion of this particular work is a key strength of this retrospective. It demonstrates how the artist’s work provides a deeper, more nuanced view of South African history. 

Williamson, trained as a journalist, brings to her art a commitment to uncovering truth without falling into the trap of turning art into propaganda. Instead, her retrospective invites an unfolding of history that gives us the space to confront it, bringing us closer to the real world.