Arts Elders Departing 

In the foyer of the National Art Gallery of Namibia, Frieda and I count the dead.

As she names the visual artists who are no longer with us at the second memorial exhibition I’ve attended in less than six months, an image of their art appears vividly in my mind.

A woman with a baby fastened firmly to her back cycling through a busy village by Paul Kiddo.

Francois de Necker’s yellow moon bright amid an arresting abstract.

Trudi Dicks’ red tents over rushing rivers.

“The arts elders are departing,” I write in a sombre Instagram post following an even more sombre morning during which I can’t help but wonder who’s next.

Time has passed in the blink of an eye. The pandemic swallowed years whole. It scattered some artists to the wind. It plagued too many with mental illness and others aren’t old, ill or dying, they’re just gone.

You don’t see them anywhere.

Their art doesn’t pop up in eclectic group exhibitions, and their social media pages haven’t been updated in years. As the arts scene makes its slow but steady return after the plague, I notice these absences more and more. And I hope these artists are somewhere in a creative fever.

I imagine that one day, they’ll return with work so incredible that we’ll all smile and say: “Ah, so that’s where you’ve been.”

A friend of mine thinks the explanation is far less romantic.

They say art doesn’t pay, it drives you insane and everyone’s just getting old.

They advise me to prepare myself because nobody lives forever. Life is full of cruel twists, terrible turns and sheer, coming death so it’s best to be stoic about it.

As fellow artists, family and friends queue to leave a message in Trudi Dicks’ memorial book at the national gallery, I watch an elderly photographer known for their haunting images of Kolmanskop break down near the door.

Their face is red.

Their hand gestures signal disbelief, but oddly, I’m relieved.

Relieved, because I thought they were dead too.

Just a few weeks ago, I was writing a story about a group exhibition featuring a number of artists posthumously, and I had to google whether the artist distraught by the door was still with us.

The search was inconclusive and my deadline was looming. So I hazarded the guess that, even after the ravages of the pandemic, they were still alive. I’m glad to see that I was right, but sad to see them so upset. So I say a little prayer for their continued long life.

Looking around at the wealth of white hair and grey beards, I catch a glimpse of the future. One day, faster than I can fathom, my generation will be saying their goodbyes and attending such memorials.

And, perhaps, the new me, arts writer and columnist, will stand there staring, baffled by mortality.

“The arts elders are departing,” I think then, watching, sadly, seeing the future.

Most visual artists in Namibia live simple, hand-to-mouth, undervalued lives.

Nonetheless, their art brings us together at exhibition openings, during walkabouts, in conversation and, yes, at memorials.

It reflects the times in brave and bold strokes, artful photography and striking cinema.

The visual artist’s work creates the imagery that defines an era, a moment and a nation. And yet, the celebration of their community-building, documenting and their creative life most often comes at the end of it.

Trudi Dicks won various awards. She lived to be over 80 years old.

The artist exhibited her work around the globe. She saw the world, was feted for a lifetime of achievement, and her memorial exhibition is full of people eager to honour her legacy surrounded by works signalling the length and breadth of her career.

It’s what I wish for everyone who calls themselves an artist – most urgently for those whose work spans decades, whose frames reflect the bittersweetness of our time and whose hair is turning grey.

May we write your stories in colours half as vivid as your canvases, display your work to each generation anew and tell all who will listen that you were here.

– martha@namibian.com.na; Martha Mukaiwa on Twitter and Instagram; marthamukaiwa.com