Beninoise artist Romuald Hazoume makes traditional=20 religious masks — out of discarded objects. ‘I’m just=20 sending back the rubbish sent from Europe to Africa,’ he=20 told Tony Karon=20
ROMUALD HAZOUME probably turned more heads than any=20 other artist visiting the Johannesburg Biennale. =20
The young Beninoise exhibited a series of traditional=20 religious masks crafted from plastic oil cans, old=20 radios and other urban waste. On the opposite wall, he=20 hung a series of complex paintings attempting a graphic=20 representation of the oracle of divination used by the=20 high priests of the Fa, the traditional Yoruba religion=20 practised throughout West Africa (and, in adapted forms=20 born of slavery, throughout the Americas). =20
The exhibit commented with wry wit on Africa’s=20 relationship with the West, at the same time as=20 expressing the artist’s deep roots in Yoruba tradition – – and captivated most visitors to the Biennale.=20
Even those who overlooked the masks would not have=20 failed to notice Hazoume’s powerful physical presence,=20 as he presided regally in his magnificent blue bubu=20 alongside his work or at Biennale openings. =20
Wearing traditional clothing is a reflection of his=20 overall strategy as an African artist operating abroad=20 (primarily in Europe): “We never forget where we are=20 from, and we maintain our tradition. We wear our=20 traditional clothes to show that people from Benin are=20 here. It’s our way, our culture. If we don’t do that,=20 people here would think we are South African.”=20
At the same time, he refuses to be categorised as a folk=20 artist. On one occasion he travelled to Hamburg at the=20 invitation of a German gallery owner, only to discover=20 that he was to exhibit at an ethnological museum. He=20 turned down the show. “I am not an ‘African artist’; I=20 am an artist,” he explains. =20
His work is located at an intersection between Yoruba=20 tradition and a post-industrial international art market=20 — Hazoume carries his portfolio on CD Rom. His route to=20 art was almost accidental. As an undergraduate student=20 in Benin, with plans to go into either medicine or=20 architecture, the university lost his exam papers. He=20 left in disgust, and in the seething anger and=20 depression which followed, he began to create collages=20 on the bark of banana trees, and sell them to expatriate=20 Europeans in Benin. From the proceeds, he bought a house=20 and started making batik prints. That earned more money,=20 and created a secure financial base for Hazoume to=20 develop his own art works.=20
Initially, he concentrated on making masks, and was soon=20 invited to exhibit all over Europe: “In Africa, it is=20 very sad that we don’t have our sacred masks any more;=20 they (Europeans) steal all. What I am doing with my=20 masks is sending back the rubbish sent from Europe to=20 Africa — if I can get money for that, it’s even=20
He also sees himself as a recycler: “Many Africans use=20 this material and throw it away. If they can get it=20 again in their house and pay me for it, it’s wonderful.=20 People don’t realise that these materials can have two=20
Hazoume’s masks, he stresses, have no ritual value:=20 “They are simply art.” Nonetheless, they are firmly=20 grounded in tradition: “In our country we have a=20 tradition of making sacred masks from wood. I cannot=20 make masks without this tradition. Before I opened the=20 exhibition in Johannesburg, we (he and his Beninoise=20 curator) made a voudon ceremony here. There are many=20 secret societies here in South Africa, of the animist=20 religion. We needed to make a conversation with these=20 people here in this ceremony, to ask permission to show=20 our masks. If we don’t have permission, nobody can see=20 these masks.” The ceremony was private, and the Biennale=20 organisers were unaware of it. “It is our problem, it is=20 not a show.”=20
A South African gallery owner interrupts our interview=20 to offer Hazoume a show. “Call me, let’s talk,” the=20 owner urges. “Why not?” Hazoume sighs, a little warily.=20 He doesn’t like galleries, and is fiercely resisting the=20 pressures of the European art market on African artists=20 to produce work to order. “I don’t like to work with=20 galleries or have an agent. An agent tells you what to=20 do — you work to get money from the agent. But money is=20 not my problem. I just want to show something. If I have=20 success, it’s good. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter.=20
Part of the problem is the almost total absence of an=20 African art market: “African people have no interest in=20 buying art,” Hazoume sighs. “People in Benin cannot buy=20 art, they have no money. And they don’t understand this=20 art. They don’t understand how people can pay me money=20 to buy these masks. To them it’s crazy.”=20
Although he has sold some work in Cote d’Ivoire and=20 Senegal, his ability to survive as an artist depends=20 almost exclusively on sales to Europeans. “European=20 galleries want to show African work now because European=20 work now is static, and less interesting. They want to=20 see new work, new material.” While this is cause for=20 optimism, “at the same time I am anxious. Many African=20 people like money too much, and have no dignity. I want=20 to show our culture, not sell our culture.”=20
He urges caution for South African artists dealing with=20 Western markets: “Today many museums and galleries want=20 to show the work of African artists. But be careful!=20 They will eat you so fast, and spit you out. Like Cheri=20 Samba. It’s so sad.” He proceeds to relate how the=20 celebrated Zairean artist has signed a contract with a=20 European gallery which requires such a high volume of=20 output that it has drastically reduced the value of his=20 paintings: “It’s like a factory.”=20
To negotiate the treacherous international art market,=20 Hazoume believes the artist needs a strong sense of=20 identity: “Your best chance is to stay with your=20 traditions,” he advises South African artists. “Think=20 about your tradition — each country has its own=20
It took Hazoume five years to complete his divination=20 paintings now hanging opposite his masks in the Electric=20 Workshop in Newtown. But he was in no hurry, for they=20 represent an exploration of the very core of his=20 identity. That exploration brought him and his inspired=20 work to Johannesburg, which suggests that the Yoruba=20 gods smiled (at least momentarily) on the much-maligned=20 Johannesburg Biennale.=20