HAZEL FRIEDMAN bids farewell to once fted, now forgotten rural woodcarver Doctor Phutuma Seoka
FEW people would have noticed the small farewell to a “well-known woodcarver from the Northern Province” which recently appeared in the Mail & Guardian personals column. Doc Phutuma Seoka died on February 22 at Duiwelskloof “after a long illness”, the notice reads, “leaving behind a wife, nine children and a lifetime of work spread around the world”.
What the obituary doesn’t mention is that he died disillusioned with a world which, in 1985 and 1986, clamoured for his work, yet which – — to the ailing artist, at least — appeared to have abandoned him 10 years later.
It is a familiar story: a rural woodcarver is discovered by art dealers, thrust into the commercial gallery system and hailed as a great artist by affluent, white patrons. But the art market is notoriously fickle and, like sculptor Nelson Mukhuba — whose feelings of betrayal by his white patrons contributed to his destruction of his family, home and himself — Seoka was unversed in its vagaries. Without an ongoing gallery support system and tough critical input, rural-based artists — even those possessed of Seoka’s street-smart mindset — don’t stand a chance.
Born at Mojaji in the Lebowa area of the northern Transvaal, until 1985 Seoka owned a barber shop and produced sculptures, inspired by dreams, as a sideline activity, which he would sell on the road to Gazankulu. It was there that Ricky Burnett found him, selecting his quirky wooden sculptures — along with work by Noria Mabasa, Jackson Hlungwane and Mukhuba, to mention a few — for the Tributaries art exhibition.
Held in 1985, this BMW-sponsored show is still regarded as the exhibition which heralded the coming-of-age of local art. The urban art market was seduced by work which was African yet engagingly “modern” at the same time (hence the label “transitional” art), and many white artists were influenced by the genre.
The show launched the careers of entire rural communities who were able to live off proceeds from sales of their work to galleries as well as the burgeoning tourist market. Soon the works of Seoka — images and objects adhering to the natural shape of the wood on which they were painted — were straddling the realms of high art and curio with equal ease.
To meet the increasing demand for his work, Seoka began producing in bulk. He even commissioned his sons to make sculptures based on a prototype carved on a tree trunk — a practice which was highly acceptable during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, but which did not endear the artist to a market in which value is synonymous with rarity. Seoka’s art was also uneven in quality, and, from an entire body of work, dealers would select a fraction of his output.
Sandy Burnett recalls the last time she and her husband visited Seoka at his home, several years ago. “We used to visit him every time we were in the area, but the last time he was incredibly morbid and moribund. He angrily refused to make any more work until his entire output had been sold. Ricky and I tried to tell him that art doesn’t work like this, the most an artist can expect is for a few pieces to be sold at a time, and that he needed to discard the rest and begin again. But he wasn’t open to our advice.”
She adds: “When he began making sculpture, he was inspired by mystical concerns. He sold only a few works at a time to people he trusted and who seemed to have genuine respect for his dreams and his inspirations. All that changed when dealers began clearing out his entire stock when demand was up, and ignored his work when it was no longer fashionable.”
Perhaps the modest epitaph to Seoka should have included the words: “Too much, too soon; too little, too late.”