/ 4 October 2024

‘I’m not someone you can pity’

Louise Hr
Face it: Louise Westerhout’s bold artistry subverts societal narratives on queerness, disability and mortality. Photo: Lauren Brits

It’s almost the end of the year and it feels like I’ve been living in galleries. With each visit, a rhythm emerges — a sense of anticipation builds as I drive toward them. 

I find myself bracing for the conversations I know I will have. Artists and art enthusiasts often circle around familiar topics: the state of art, socio-political influences on creative expression, and there are recurring discussions about power, identity and resilience. 

For someone like me, who struggles with self-diagnosed anxiety, these common themes somehow offer comfort. 

A week ago, I found myself at the Fada Gallery at the University of Johannesburg to view a group exhibition titled Imminent and Eminent Ecologies

I had arranged to meet one of the curators, Leora Farber, at 14:00, but in a bid to master time management, I arrived 35 minutes early. 

This unexpected pocket of time allowed me to engage with the gallery space before our conversation. 

The first piece to catch my eye was a series of photographs — olive trees  in the occupied territories of Palestine captured by Adam Broomberg and Rafael Gonzalez. 

The images are serene, yet they carry the weight of displacement and survival, resonating with the broader themes of environmental and political ecologies. 

As I moved further into the gallery, the exhibition unfolded like a story, sparking reflections on power, vulnerability, land and humanity. 

In a different room, my attention was drawn to a large portrait of a single woman. 

They stood tall and powerful, their presence filling the space, but not in an intimidating way. Rather, they seemed to pour their energy into the room, infusing it with life. 

Their image demanded attention, and I found myself seated on a nearby bench, silently contemplating them for a few moments. 

Then, I heard a voice. Startled, I glanced around, only to realise I had overlooked the video installation next to the portrait. 

The voice belonged to Louise Westerhout, a queer, disabled artist whose exhibition Capitalist Machine includes social media posts. The large image is part of a project titled unclear. 

Cape Town-based Westerhout is a published poet, a therapist, performance artist, curator, educator, Reiki master and yogi. 

Their art documents their everyday experiences, not only as a stage-four cancer survivor but as someone who has endured significant trauma throughout their life. 

Intrigued, I arranged a WhatsApp video call with Westerhout to dive deeper into their work.

I didn’t expect the candidness with which the 56-year-old artist spoke, nor the deep layers of introspection they would share. 

“My journey as a survivor of domestic abuse and sexual assault — and as a therapist for other survivors — forced me to confront what I am,” they said.

“When my cancer returned, I realised the way I saw myself had fundamentally changed. 

“The usual tropes about cancer or disability — that people should feel pity or see you as brave — didn’t resonate with me.”  

Westerhout rejects the notion of being seen as a victim. Their work challenges the viewer’s gaze, subverting expectations about what a body like theirs represents.

“I see beauty and power in myself,” they continued. “The image you saw at the gallery is not meant to inspire anyone else. I don’t have words of wisdom for anyone. I make the viewer look at me and what they think they’re going to see isn’t what they’re actually going to see.”  

Through their art, Westerhout explores the complexities of identity, particularly as it relates to ageing, queerness and disability. 

“Here I am, a queer, disabled, older person, and I’m making you look. What you’re looking at might disturb you but that’s the point. I’m not someone you can pity.” 

As they spoke, I sensed that their defiance wasn’t just a reaction to societal narratives — it was a deliberate choice to reclaim their humanity. They describe themselves as a cyborg — medically altered by cancer treatment, with two metal legs. 

“I’ve become a cyborg, but what’s surprising is how this has deepened my empathy for the human experience. The things I used to be afraid of don’t scare me anymore.” 

Westerhout’s work challenges not only how we perceive bodies in art but also the broader assumptions we make about life and death. 

“Knowing that I might die sooner than most people doesn’t terrify me. In fact, it gives me a kind of security. 

“I’ve accepted that my life is finite and I want to show others that this realisation doesn’t have to be paralysing.” 

Their project unclear reflects this philosophy. It doesn’t offer clear answers but instead embraces the ambiguity of existence. 

“I’m in love with the small, mundane moments of life — breakfast, tending to my garden. I don’t have an agenda with this work. I’m just being myself.” 

As our conversation drew to a close, Westerhout’s words lingered with me. Their refusal to conform to traditional narratives of suffering or survival felt radical, yet deeply honest.

“There’s nothing anyone can say to me that will put me in my place,” they said. “I’m going to die soon, and I’m not afraid. 

“That’s the dangerous thing about someone like me — there’s no consequence for me anymore.” 

In essence, Westerhout’s work, much like their words, is about asserting agency over one’s narrative. It’s about being seen, but on their own terms. 

Through their art, they continue to create, not for the sake of posterity, but because it allows them to live authentically in the here and now. 

And in doing so, Westerhout offers a glimpse of what it truly means to confront life — and death — without fear.