Laurel’s Stories for Edmonton Art Exhibit, Global Gallery
Tuesday March 9th, 2010


 Art and Clowning

It was Bernadin in Burkina Faso that gave me permission to play. His philosophy is that nothing is a mistake. I once dropped a blob of black india ink in the middle of a painting that seemed to have some potential. I moaned in regret, and he stopped me right away. ‘Do you know what this piece will become- do you know the final product- no? Then how can it be a mistake?’. Then he went outside, got a piece of bamboo from the ground, came back in and drew lines through this black blob of ink, making it the strongest part of the painting

It’s the art of clowning. Do you know that clowns go to ‘clown school?’ Well they do. And in clown school they teach you that when you make a mistake during your performance, you throw up your arms and say, ‘Ta Da!’ And everyone is forced to clap and laugh. And all is recuperated.

This exhibit has been organized and infused with the spirit of Africa:
keep it simple
use what you have
go with the flow
expect the unexpected
it all works out in the end
if it doesn’t, just say, ‘ta da!’
have a party anyway with friends- new and known


Art and Recuperation

In Zambia I learned the art of recuperation. There was nothing that could not be used as an artistic material- plastic bottles, plastic bags, glass bottles, pieces of computer, rusting metal scraps, sand, clay, tree branches, charcoal- things from the earth, things from the garbage, acrylic paintings painted on old flannel sheets and table cloths. Creativity from necessity. We must create, so we find materials.
I guess the concept of ‘archival quality’ is almost irrelevant in a country where the term ‘starving artist’ is in no way a metaphore.

Three kittens have joined us in the studio- I think Joseph found them. When I hold one on my lap I can feel every bone, every vibration. They are so new to this world, their lives so fragile. They could be crushed with one misplaced backward step (and I worry that this will happen).
And what of the fragility and durability of the artists? I am starting to feed kittens and artists, but do they need to find their own way? Do they need to eat lizards and n’chima, and I keep my paws off?

Clarence- who now spells his name ‘Kilarenz’- is a tall, too thin young Zimbabwean man, who wears a straw hat at a jaunty angle, or a black scarf, or black leather pants.
talented, bright, unique, funny, charming. He is vulnerable in so many ways. When I take him to someone’s house he becomes nervous, ‘are my clothes o.k., what should I say?’ He knows that he lives in this studio bubble, which will burst outside of the protective walls, and drop him into this alien space where the air is too thin…. But in the studio he is in his territory. He will suddenly be transported by the music blaring through the studio and start to dance, eyes closed, brilliant teeth flashing a smile.

Kilarenz: What day is it today?
Laurel: Sunday afternoon
Kilarenz: My grandmother has just come home after a very long walk to church, after attending a service that was way too long. The pickaninees are with her. They are fighting right now and giving her grief. She is trying to prepare a meal and Xhosa is helping her. I should be helping her, but here I am, painting. I should be supporting her, and I can’t, and I have to live with that every day. She raised us right. She prays for us every day. God knows her voice well. And here I am, sick- probably from something I smoked.

email from Clarence:
hey little mama'
good to ear from you,well lusaka iz as u left it slow like a f...en' nothing happens here,we ave a nu comminttie at the space which iz way beta than any we ave had before they just started so we yet to see if they iz good for their word besides that it remains the same a the space.Nick iznt working from there no more,you left Rob left its cool i leave too soon if Jah will it,blaka him ok avent sin him in a while im sure him ok'
do your best to smile n enjoy the time we ave under the fire'
Watcha'


Art and Identity

Dec 25th 2007 At the Studio (Lusaka)

In my second year in Zambia, I became an African artist.  I did not change my nationality or my skin colour, but I entered in- no, was invited in- to this world. 

It is December 25th and the African night is dark and silent.  I have just left a Christmas party with Ex-patriate friends, and I am coming to see if any of my artist friends are at the art studio. The studio smells of paint, rain, and the staleness of unwashed clothes.  I walk carefully up the broken concrete steps in my italian high-heel shoes, trying to avoid potholes and pools of water from the leaky roof. How silently the cockroaches scurry to darker corners.  Rats 'parumpupumpum' in the roof overhead, while  an angel choir of malarial mosquitoes hum in the background.  My rasta artist friends-Clarence and Nick, Joseph and Chris, Collins and Brian and Dan- are gathered together on the concrete steps, like shepherds looking for a messiah.  They are dazzled by my brilliant green silk dress, eyes drawn to the two slits up either leg.  
'Yea-bo little mama, you lookin good!', Clarence greets me.  
'You look like an African,'  Nick announces.  (My dress is made from Pakistani silk, sewn by a Bosnian woman in Canada).  
'I've come to celebrate Christmas with you; Fear not!'  I announce, feeling like the angel Gabriel, ‘I bring you cookies, tarts, and rum punch!'  Their interest quickly turns from the slits in my dress to my gifts and an impromptu feast begins -the best kind; pretty much the only kind here.  

From that night on when Nick introduces me to his friends visiting the studio he would say, 'she is one of us; she is an African'.  It is the highest compliment he could pay me.    And yet, it occurs to me now that I  don't know any of their African names.  So what identity were they revealing to me, and how did I, the white Canadian, become 'African'?  How are they part of my identity and how am I a part of theirs? Identity of skin and heart and name....


Art and Determination

This was the theme for the 2008 Harare International Festival of the Arts (HIFA). My friend Serena was driving down from Lusaka, and invited me to join her. I was nervous because it was 3 weeks after the first election in Zimbabwe where Robert Mugabe refused to release the election results. The country was starting into the most recent cycle of violence. It was an agonizing decision, as I really wanted to go, but the timing of a visit to Zimbabwe was not the most propitious: post election with official results still unannounced, destroyed economy, outrageous inflation, racial tensions. Perhaps not the most enticing tourist profile. If this were a post-election period in West Africa, I wouldn’t even consider going. The borders would be closed and if you got in, you would not be able to get out. However it’s not West Africa, it is Zimbabwe, which has this quirky ability to remain relatively stable amidst the most provocative circumstances.

There have to be more artists per square metre in Zimbabwe than any country I know. The theme of this years Arts festival was ‘ Art and Determination’. The background motif at every stage were long banners with X’s in contrasting colours, symbolizing the votes that were cast- the voice of the artistic community to Zanu PF- We have spoken, now you listen.

During the festival I attended a workshop of readings- rap music, poetry. The poets and rap musicians did not mince words, they spoke quite openly about their suffering and the need for change. Lines from different readings
[the reader has taken on the voice of Mugabe: “I am slowly getting tired. I can’t remember who I am or why I lost”. General laughter]
God watches us- not CNN, not FOX, not BBC
Fat chefs sit in the kitchen cooking up pieces of famine, house of hunger…
Rapper: ‘you work and you work and you get paid…[crowd responds] ‘Mahara!’ [means ‘nothing’ in Shona]

Inflation and supplies
The inflation is out of control.  The program for the arts festival cost $80 million Zim dollars.  Expensive, eh?  Not really at 80 cents--- when I arrived.  By the time I left 4 days later it cost 55 cents.  I got 100million Zim dollars for 1$USD; the official bank rate is $30,000.  The currency has an expiry date- printed January; expires June 2008. The money comes in stacks of $1Billion, which is $10. Cash is hard to come by. There are long lines outside every bank. The limit per day of what you can take out of your own account is $4 billion, or $40, which is good for one trip to the supermarket.
I was fishing old Zim bills that were thrown into a pile of trash in a parking lot (I wanted them as souvenirs) when a street kid came along, feeling sorry for me: ‘madame, I will give you some money, you don’t need to take these.
I hitched a ride with a young professional Zimbabwean couple, listened to their conversation from the back seat:
“Bongi found some engine oil the other day.
Amazing!- that’s just like gold; what did she trade it for? Silas has shock absorbers.
And another conversation:
 -Come over for a braii [BBQ] on Friday
-Brilliant, what are we having?
-What are you bringing?

Power cuts are regular, and often last 36 hours over the weekend. Buying flowers on the street, my friend tries to bargain. The vendor: ‘Ah sir, what can I buy with this money; some people are sitting pretty, you know.’ The flower seller knows. We drive past people begging on the streets, and past mansions.

“Broken countries, but still they survive; there is something about survival in Africa that beats me, every time.” Anne Paludan