Category: RECORDS, (WORLD / GLOBAL)

The artist, also a guest editor of ‘Bazaar Art’ praises communal creative practice and refutes the notion of the lone genius.

Some people imagine that making art, being a visual artist, is best accomplished and performed alone; I’m pretty certain they are wrong. My own experience has been exactly the opposite from the beginning.

I am an only child, the daughter of an English textile designer and a Comorian college lecturer; I was born in Zanzibar. As a little girl in the early 1960s, I played in the streets and back gardens of Maida Vale in London with two boys who lived nearby. Together we dug an enormous hole, without our parents’ knowledge or permission, to prepare for a swimming pool.

At school, in the art room, the teacher asked us to design the costumes and sets for Cyrano de Bergerac, a play in which it took two men, via poetry and letters, to court a young woman. As head girl, I joined others going out on strike to protest about democracy and freedom of speech.

At art college, which I hated almost as much as school, it was clear that the young women students were being educated to be assistants to the men. We outnumbered, out-lifted and outperformed them at every available opportunity. I learned that to succeed in theatre design you needed to be a team player—but not a woman.

As a waitress in Covent Garden in the mid-1970s, it was obvious that without the chefs, the washing-up staff and each other, we could never have survived the disdain, the flirting, and the exhaustion inflicted upon us by the customers.

The early days of organising, making and showing with other Black women artists in London were, for me, the real beginnings of my collaborative practice. We worked alongside each other in domestic studios and spoke frankly about funding and the need for studio space, as well as our doubts and fears for the future of our creative endeavours. Some women worked with each other on groundbreaking community print projects and then alongside me to make an exhibition happen. We functioned on the very outer edges of a pretty unfriendly art world for which we had huge expectation of change but an infinitesimal amount of experience as to how this could be done.

During the 40 years since those early showing days of the 1980s, my desire to work with others has grown stronger. Without the collaborative experience of working with a studio team; talking and testing, exchanging ideas, being challenged and having to rethink and compromise (in a good way), my work would be totally different: less daring, less exciting for me and more introspective (in a bad way).

There have been art historians who asked serious and intense questions about the process and curators who enabled me to be myself by taking care of me. Importantly, they dealt with the practicalities and the administrative complexities, so that the only thing I had to worry about was the making and developing or ‘how to push everything I could to the limit’.

Close friends—all artists—have in the past been invaluable partners in my work, constantly questioning, offering expertise or supporting a series of seemingly illogical projects with practical help, money, or by cooking comforting meals, making endless cups of tea or providing favourite biscuits.

During the years I spent preparing full-time art students for the challenging years ahead, which I knew would be filled with unexpected opportunities and inevitable setbacks, my advice to them was always to work with other artists who had different areas of expertise from themselves to make pop-up shows, workshops, group performance projects, homemade ’zines and moving-image productions. I tried to persuade them that it is impossible to do everything yourself, and that their own work would suffer, as would that of their fellow artists, unless they worked for an agreed common goal. Their paintings and films, installations and prints would be stronger, still individual, but part of a wider conversation.

Recently, I have learned how to listen more carefully to the sounds in my head and begun to understand how to make this real in my paintings and installations by working with Magda StawarskaBeavan, an artist who makes screen prints, paintings, and drawings as well as moving-image and sound-composition projects.

For a few years on and off we made screen prints, Magda leading and printing, then gradually worked on sound pieces—mostly hers and occasionally mine. As part of a recent show at Wiels contemporary art centre in Brussels called ‘Risquons-Tout’, we worked for several months during the fiercest lockdowns in the North West of England on an installation called ‘The Blue Grid Test’, combining a 25-metre blue painting on found objects with a six-channel sound work. We talked extensively about codes and patterns, language and love, colour and rhythm, and worked alongside each other, wandering in and out of her studio and mine. All the while, as we built layers of understanding and multiple connections through music and language using invented texts in French, English and Flemish, Magda developed a composition piece that wraps and envelops the audience. I painted a long thin line in many shades of blue. It became a room in which 64 global patterns on numerous items found neglected in cupboards, basements and on shelves in the house, spoke and sang in and out of harmony with the words and music. I felt this could be the beginning of a determination to add to our previous collaborations during the past 10 years by making real more experimental   projects, in print and with sound, in between working on our own exhibitions.

If you can find someone who will listen to you as intently as you are prepared to listen to them, you have probably found the perfect collaborative partner. Be willing to say what you want and then have that idea bettered, and you may have the solution to creating artwork that really could make a difference.

This piece originally appeared in the November 2021 print edition of Harper’s Bazaar UK 

source/content: harpersbazaar.in (headline edited)

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BRITISH / TANZANIA / COMOROS