Giggs Kgole and African Consciousness

It is not entirely incorrect to believe that you are the centre of the universe. The universe is constantly expanding in every direction at an equal rate…

It is not entirely incorrect to believe that you are the centre of the universe. The universe is constantly expanding in every direction at an equal rate. This means that if you stand at any point, you will find that the universe is expanding around that point as fast as it is expanding around a different point elsewhere. So according to Cosmological Theorem, the world does revolve around you or your point of view. On first looking up Giggs Kgole for a write-up, I had the distinct sense that he believed himself to be the centre of all art. As I dug through interviews and ploughed through articles looking for his essence, I found a young man so sure of himself it felt uncomfortable.

Giggs Kgole, Signature African Art, London, by Jonathan A Milton

We first speak via video call in the early spring of 2022, I in London and he in Rome – a student of Art History. As we connect over displacement, our humble Limpopo beginnings, and the art our grandmothers created, a fuller human unfurls before me. We have met before: in the peaks and valleys of the Sekhukhune mountains, in the hustle and bustle of Thembisa, in the grief of losing home while creating it elsewhere. The conversation reaches ease and mutual respect sooner than I had expected. His laughter sits in his chest, ebbing and flowing. His smile is broad, with dimpled youth accenting an old soul. I am surprised that though they appeared lofty and self-indulgent at first, his dreams are deeply grounded in his devotion to his family and the soil from which he came. He envisions brick and mortar from stardust, land and sky for an art centre in his hometown.

Born in Kutupu village, Limpopo, he began his illumination above St John’s College grounds where he went to high school on a full scholarship. With the support of a devoted teacher, Giggs was catapulted into a galaxy far beyond his childhood creations of clay figures by the riverside. To date, he is the recipient of an Undiscovered Canvas Residency, Mail and Guardian Top 200 Young South Africans, a Young Masters Art Prize nod, and a scholarship to the John Cabot University in Rome. His constellation of achievements is without end.

Giggs Kgole

We hang up and I am flooded. I finally grasp how empathy is the ability to see the humanity in another, that care and curiosity are always the way in. When we don’t approach from empathy, we miss the person we’ve obscured with our prejudice. Human connection is from a genuine intention to understand, creating a path to mutual interest and collaboration. As we learn about others, we learn about ourselves, we learn what we cannot know without the other.

I am compelled to interrogate why his self-belief had initially jarred me and I find that where I thought I had dug deeply, still lay the roots of racial and social inferiority within me. Giggs embodied a disregard for the stripping humility and subserviency dictated by Apartheid on Blackness. I was envious of someone who’d broken free of the insidious messaging still prevalent in ‘democratic’ South Africa, who’d escaped the idea that Black boys from disadvantaged areas are not worth the pillows they dream on. He framed what it could look like to usurp a system built against you, to carve your own path through community and support, to truly believe that you are the centre of the universe as it expands around you. For the African’s dream to succeed, we must take to levels of self-delusion, to exist as if the boundaries do not.

Giggs Kgole, Signature African Art, London, by Jonathan A Milton

My hope for us is this: That our interactions lead us to the other side of who we can be. That our dreams are fuelled by radical self-belief. That the next time we walk into a room we assume we are the best thing that ever happened to it.

We are an ever-evolving body of experiences and intelligence standing at the edge of a future expanding exactly as we’ve envisioned it.

Selah

Upon Linen We Gather – Lulama Wolf

The African vernacular experience is a tapestry of language and its dialects, familial cultural norms and their tribal nuances, the pursuit of greatness anchored in the gravitas of communal duty. It is on this tapestry of intersectional culture, in a west London gallery that my social axis is tilted.

SoShiro Gallery – Marylebone, London

The door is opened by a tall, beautiful woman, with a dreadlocked ponytail, who welcomes us with homely ease. The gallery, at first sight, looks like its former life, a Georgian Marylebone white terraced home. This style of display is a far echo from the white-walled gallery norm. Instead, the works hang against floor-to-ceiling geometric walls. The featured pieces of contemporary furniture give the art a familial and intimate poise, making the majestic attainable, liveable.

I later learn that the woman is Shiro Muchiro, Kenyan born interior architect and founder of SoShiro Gallery. Her work centers on mixed media collaborations and expanding our experience beyond museums into lived spaces.

Nomaza Nongqunga Coupez – SoShiro Gallery

We turn into what would’ve been the living room and in it stands an icon in the South African art industry, Nomaza Nongqunga Coupez, draped in copper-orange velvet. The France-based entrepreneur and founder of Undiscovered Canvas, with a focus on “promoting investment in African arts”, greets us wholeheartedly. The girl had a split second to decide who I’d be in this narrative, but fangirl and hype-woman be my original nature! I Marylebonically, black-girl-in-an-art-gallery, lost my mind. She gracefully talks us through some of the pieces she’s curated for this exhibition. Her pride is that of a midwife, holding a new born in the air.

Luluma Wolf during her residency with Undiscovered Canvas – Antibes, France

The African perspective is a common caricature in western culture. We are not often set up as intelligent, fully formed, positive contributors to our own narrative and to the world’s at large. But here I am, in a house exclusively dedicated to showcasing Luluma Wolf’s phenomenal work. Her art embodies a strong African vernacular language with a contemporary tone. She peels at the layers surrounding pre-colonial dignity and spirituality. In this collection of Ndizalwe Nge Ngubo Emhlophe (I was born wrapped in a white blanket), she works through the mediums of acrylic paint mixed with Mediterranean sand, carefully stroked onto linen canvas. It is upon her linen canvases that we gather and marvel. The work is gritty yet gentle. The prominent eye is a call, a cry, a conversation, a prayer.

Nomaza and Luluma – Antibes, France

The evening ends with communion and warm drinks. At this point, we have also met Mae, Maya, and Elle of Zambian descent. Nomaza is generous with her time and heart. We all share a full spread of hope and the lessons of lived moments. We loan each other courage; we barter in beauty and purpose. I remember my WHY and breathe in this answered prayer.

I STAN every single woman I met on this day: their generosity of spirit, their intelligence, and the important work they do for black women. You don’t know you are writing an International Women’s Month piece until you are writing one.

[There were guys too, like my friend David who shared it all with me 🙂 ]

Mind Travel

Like most of my adventures, this one starts off sketchy. It follows a blank stare from the car rental agent, deflecting my empty pleas when I cannot produce my South African driver’s license. ‘I left it in the flat, can I show you a copy on my phone instead?’, I don’t realise how ridiculous I sound in the moment because desperation is the mother of idiots. Sigh. I give myself a little scolding but quickly retract it considering I’m on holiday and I deserve a dumb mistake… or two, lol. I take to a ‘ce la vie’ sway back to the flat and wait for the cold water to hit my travel buddy, who is as annoyed with me as I thought they would be. Iriz-wari-iriz. Soon we are in a luxury VW sedan, on the high-way, south coast bound.

I remember edgy cliffs, the kind you fall off into the sea without realising. I remember a hypnotic blue ocean, the kind you drown in wilfully. I remember Durdle Door, a bizarre rock formation into the ocean, bearing testament to all that was before time. I remember a visceral awareness of my humanity, and how nature is our umbilical cord to the Divine. I sit in the gritty paradox of being insignificant and majestic all at once. It is in the vastness of nature that we realise how small we are yet each worthy of a unique fingerprint.

The human condition is an existence in tension, a thing that is but isn’t.

I remember stuffing my cardigan pockets with tiny brown beach pebbles, trudging them up the hill and into the car all the richer. I am my best thing, deserving of my own empathy.

I remember looking off into the pleated hills nestling the Lost Gardens of Heligan, and in them realising the monotonous beauty of breathing at the will of God. I wake up to my place in the radiance of things. In the light bathing the green, the need to survive quiets. I am beautiful, I can be delicate and soft without it feeling like a form of death. Vulnerability is not a betrayal of my independence; but the Eden in us all.

I write this back in London, the trip in rear-view. I have learned to monumentalise my Joy, and my conscious experiences of a good Father reaching for me, more than I could ever reach back. I memorialise myself in blue fluidity and lush green thrive.

The beach pebbles now sit in a reused jam jar, next to my Monstera, growing towards a lazy winter sun. A thing that is but isn’t.

Late 20.

What do we do with the unbuild dreams, and the roofless careers? How do we admit, ’This is not how I thought it would be’? But even more frightening, how do we make new dreams at our big age?

Excuse my long silence.

It’s 05:30. My eyes reluctantly peel open into consciousness; I stay on my back and wait… but nothing. The dark has not come for me today, dread isn’t fluttering over my stomach before taking over my body. Gloom has released me from its hold, the light outside is suddenly the light within, and I have somehow survived my mind. Life’s transitions can be as simple as witnessing an erupting butterfly, as devastating as the loss of a loved one, as magical as a new baby, as necessary as a tired soul’s protest.

Nobody warns you about the big bus that hits you in the late 20’s. How the adolescent coping mechanism of your early 20’s will turn into inadequate scaffolding under the demands of adult life. How your relationship with your parents will have to change if you do not want to inherit their ghosts.  

Nobody warns you about waking up to a deep sense of unfulfilled potential. I am grateful for everything I have accomplished by God’s grace so far. I also acknowledge that this bountiful harvest of progress cannot be sacrificed at the altar of ‘Whats Next’. But there are also parts of me that feel unlived, and I hadn’t been honest about that disappointment. The best lies are the ones we tell we tell ourselves. Like the rift between two cliffs, I was experiencing the distance between the ideologies I hold about my life and my actual daily reality.

What do we do with the unbuild dreams, and the roofless careers? How do we admit, ’This is not how I thought it would be’? But even more frightening, how do we make new dreams at our big age?

Sometimes I am Adam in the garden and God is asking ‘where are you’, not as a point of judgment but as a call to consciousness and accountability.

When the clouds parted, and the light without was the light within, I realised that my work is in honoring my younger self and the choices she made with what information she had. She got me here.  My work is dreaming out what can still be and navigating towards that future fiercely. I am to never wage war against myself.

My job is in choosing the daily habits that cement the life I believe I was created to live, accepting time’s hand, accepting love. Sometimes it’s as small as switching off the TV for a book, or as big as a career change. It’s doing the things I say I will do and forgiving myself quickly when I don’t.

I am taking full shape, gently breaking into new skin, proud of every stretch mark.