When I went to meet curator, artist and teacher Thembinkosi Goniwe at his office at the Wits School of Arts, he was busy transcribing an interview. Yet he was gracious enough to agree to the distraction of a drive to the Orange Grove house he shares with his partner, Pumla Gqola, professor of literature at Wits University.
As you enter their home, one of the most prominent pieces of artwork that looks straight at you is a framed photograph by Mary Sibande, who photographed her own haunting sculpture of a domestic worker. Sibande’s work, delving into the sociology and aspirations of the South African domestic worker, was critically acclaimed when it went on exhibition at Gallery Momo last year.
“It helps us to think of the world beyond our comfort zone. How do you deal with the figure of the subordinated black woman?” said Goniwe in a professorial accent, revealing that he was the curator of Sibande’s exhibition.
For Goniwe — himself an artist comfortable with digital imagery, video, printmaking, painting and drawing — Sibande’s art is a constant reminder of the daily contradictions that face progressive middle-class black people, some of them sons and daughters of these matriarchs of the domestic space. “The domestic worker has aspirations beyond her position as cleaner,” he says.
Goniwe and Gqola also own two sets of photographic triptychs by Gabrielle Goliath from her 2008 exhibition, Murder on Seventh. In one of these she vomits a bouquet of flowers, and in another, titled Ek Is ‘n Kimberly Coloured, she explores her personal identity.
This work is up on the wall both for its aesthetic value and its comment. “The mulatto is a subversive figure, challenging the bounds of society,” says Goniwe as we stand in a passage in their house.
Their home is also adorned with carefully chosen pieces of Afro-themed furniture with decorative and functional value. As you enter the living room, for example, there is a hand-crafted, time-worn day bed made in Nigeria. In the living room itself there is a beautiful solid wooden stool, painstakingly made by hand. “We try to combine African art, not curios, which somehow converses with contemporary art production.”
Their art includes pieces that Goniwe has himself created, packed away in wooden crates stacked in their study, awaiting framing.
“We have a rather small home,” he says, explaining why each piece is not up on the wall. “Collecting requires space. People who live in mansions have the privilege of displaying their artworks.” Besides, he says, “collecting art is not just about exhibition”.
Their collection, Goniwe says, is not for sale; perhaps one day if someone has an exhibition “we could loan” some works.
Once a curator, always a curator. Goniwe imagines his own intimate space in the same way a museum curator would picture a formal space. “We don’t have to have the same artworks on the wall forever,” he says. “After three years we can get new artworks up on the wall.”
One could argue that as an artist Goniwe has a professional interest in people owning art. Yet, for many who can afford it, collecting art ranks many rungs lower than other middle-class hobbies, such as collecting expensive wine and whisky. “[Art] often appears impenetrable to the layperson, more so within the African communities,” wrote senior artist David Koloane in a short essay for a show Goniwe held at the Bag Factory in 2001.
The result is that struggling artists are often unable to survive by relying only on their genius.
Goniwe recognises that the reason most black people don’t own art “has to do with the economics”. Yet he sees a wider “attitude [problem] that needs to be questioned”. Some people spend hundreds of thousands of rands on watches, drive big cars and drink expensive whisky, he says, yet their houses are adorned by what he calls “cliché art”, hastily manufactured curios picked up on the side of the street.
Goniwe emphasises that investing in art doesn’t guarantee “a quick cash return”, but it’s a sure investment as the value of art, unlike cars, “never declines”.
As the interview draws to a close Goniwe says, somewhat wistfully: “Imagine you owned a Dumile Feni now,” referring to the late exiled artist. Feni’s works can fetch hundreds of thousands of rands. Among those who collect his works is former president Thabo Mbeki.
As we part I am struck by the fact that, for Goniwe, investing in art is primarily an investment in its meaning. For now, what happens to the art after that is of lesser importance.