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Samson Kambalu conversa com Gisela Casimiro

Samson Kambalu - Fracture Empire_ Culturgest_ Fotos de António Jorge Silva (1).jpg
Gisela Casimiro

 

 

It is a rare privilege to visit an exhibition with the artist himself (who is also a professor) as your guide, listening to him candidly talk about his work and motivations. I was lucky to do so in the context of Samson Kambalu’s Fracture Empire, curated by Bruno Marchand, on view at Culturgest until 6 February. Some days before, I had attended his talk on the subject of gift, which is always present in his work. Indeed, he sees his artwork as a gift, and that is where the problematisation of the act of giving begins. Kambalu believes it is important for the giver to be effective and subtle, so that the recipient remains unaware that something is being offered to them—which he compares to the effects of reading Nietzsche. To return a gift is to curse it. Gifts must be given inconspicuously. As artists or poets, we must create and share while avoiding the vulgarisation of our gift. I learn that it is considered rude to thank someone for a gift in Malawi. To thank is to acknowledge the gift, when the purpose is not to perceive it as such. Samson comments on the idea of exchange in religion, and one cannot help but think about the first contacts between colonisers and the people they exploited until the exchange became too unbalanced and unquantifiable. Some examples of gifts are religious donations; to love one’s neighbour directly can lead to feelings of rage and humiliation, so the offerings are given to the church, which then distributes them. Or at an art opening, where people eat and drink without the burden of a tab to split or someone to thank, as would happen in a bar. The gift as debt, as something which distances instead of bringing together. Who can receive and who can give, who loses and who wins? Masks aid this process; they allow for exchanges that are free from obligations, they mediate. To simply accept a gift—that is, to really form a bond. Still, I thank him for his time. He does not get offended.

 

The visit begins with Kambalu expressing his deep admiration for the controversial Malawian hero John Chilembwe, a pastor and politician who died in 1915 and who was responsible for the first Malawian uprising, which failed. The turning point that precipitated the insurgence, led by Chilembwe, against the colonial system was the conscription of Malawians into the fight of the British Empire against the Tanzanians, who fought for their German colonisers, during the First World War. Kambalu tells us: “This photograph of John Chilembwe was taken a few months prior to his death, still in 1914. At that time, it was illegal for Africans to wear a hat in the presence of a white man.” However, the photo that served as reference for Kambalu’s sculpture Antelope (the English word for Chilembwe) depicts exactly that: Chilembwe standing next to John Chorley, a European missionary. The most obvious differences between the photograph and the sculpture (which was one of the winners of Fourth Plinth, in Trafalgar Square) pertain to proportion and placement. The two men, one black and one white, one African and one European, are no longer side by side, facing the photographer; rather, they have their backs turned to each other, forcing the observer to circle the statue and surprising them by its disproportionality. Chilembwe’s figure is exaggerated, so to say, in order to highlight the black man, the African. Chorley is depicted in a more naturalistic scale, thus appearing quite smaller than his friend. Provocative works alter scale. In his sculpture, Samson elevates the black man—the same man who appears to be of a similar size and build than that of the white man that stands beside him in the picture. The sentiment arose far before its materialisation. A work that was made before George Floyd’s death and the impact it would have on the world. A statue to be cherished and admired, not one to be taken down. A test to the acceptance and actual legitimisation of Samson as a British citizen, but one whose heart remains Malawian. The examination of colonial matters from an African—instead of European—perspective.

 

In this sculpture, the two men do not face each other. It reminds me of David Bowie’s duet with Al B. Sure!, Black Tie White Noise, a song about alliance but with an underlying sense of latent, subliminal distrust, a risk. About turning one’s back with the awareness that, if there is blood, at least there will be no death. But you never know. “Having an ally did not prevent his murder. The struggle for recognition goes beyond size difference; it makes one’s place more complicated. It means that a black person always stands out, for better or for worse. Godzilla, King Kong, divinities. The statue offsets and equalises,” Samson says. I ask him whether he always wears a hat, to which he replies, laughing, that he does. “I was brought up with dandies, and what was considered illegal in the beginning of the century is now a symbol of freedom.” We are aware of the connections between style and "Black Excellence" and "Sunday best" and of how it remains a factor of continued cultural appropriation, in contrast with colonial depictions which often portrayed black people wearing no clothes nor shoes. “He, Chilembwe, also holds a book and a pair of glasses, which he hides. The hat holds a secret; it is sideways. The subject appears to be the hat, but something forces us to shift perspective—the placement of an object. It begins to glisten like a halo,” the artist says with a smile. The room also contains pictures of a church, before and after its construction. The cathedral was built by Chilembwe, and it becomes impossible to circle the scale model without seeing it. The trees had just been cut, and the soldiers were photographed in that newly deserted setting. He was captured when trying to flee to Mozambique. Felling trees is a very specific act of cruelty, one that cannot be unmade; not only the building but also its surrounding environment were destroyed. A building takes a lot less time to rebuild than nature. Trees are life, the body. A nihilistic destruction, driven by deep contempt and rage. It is not just a war; it is the restriction of the following generation’s access to food, shade, and wood that those trees could have provided; it is the hindrance of life itself. The pictures depict various stages of the destruction, a sort of performance of war within war itself, or overlapping wars—the world war, the colonial war, the civil war.

 

We continue. “These disguises were sometimes worn by one or two men at a time, even though they represent a woman, her uterus. My films are also a sort of disguise. I never prepare my films; I simply walk, and the films happen when I stumble upon places that interest me. The world is magically transformed when I look at it through the lens of cinema. I can walk through walls, I can fly. I can polish an atomic bomb or try to cool it. We become part of this Nyau Cinema, as it is called, a name that comes from the homonymous traditional masks (made of wood and straw). For the Chewa people, the antelope is the most important mask in their rituals. The British colonisers abolished traditional costumes, but we can achieve the same effect by wearing modern clothing. That is what masks allow for. We can even disguise ourselves without wearing a mask. By wearing a costume, for instance. I try to generate an active enthusiasm, not a passive one like in theatre. My films encourage movement, interaction, participation. I can keep talking as I watch these films, for instance.” Just like at the markets in Africa, where everything happens at the same time. “There is no decision; if I find you on the street and you hand me a camera and ask me to shoot you, I am suddenly directing you, I am being part of something. People approach me and I befriend them. People react differently. Bruno Marchand saw those films at the Venice Biennial. Art helped. Without the mask, people have no reason to interact, to connect with one another. Thus, both adults and children are susceptible to that magic.” The mask has become not who I could have been, but who I really am, without any constraints. Today we see masks as means of protection, but they have actually become the true face of people. We can barely recognise people when they are not wearing one. We match the fabric, the pattern, or the colour of our outfit and our masks (disposable or not). They have become an armour, or an entertaining device, and they can convey a humorous message or advocate for human rights, like Naomi Osaka’s masks promoting the Black Lives Matter movement.

 

Samson tells me about the Mganda dance, from Malawi. He shows me a video. “These people fought alongside the British, and now they are mocking them as part of the grassroots movement. They ridicule British imperialism and what it signifies. They are no longer fearful, respectful, nor subordinate. They dress like them, with the hats and the walking sticks, while performing tribal dances. They turned British-military discipline into a dance. They are contemporary with the statue with the hat. Chilembwe’s elegance was also subversive. He took British mannerisms and subverted them.” Even if my appearance resembles that of the other, I retain my own essence. Even with the sideways hat—a very peculiar sign, a small and subtle message he left for someone to find. Someone like Samson.

 

“When I started making these films, I had a lot of free time. I was very poor, had no internet connection at home, and the only messages I received were from Nigerian princes, scammers. Africans gathered in public places, at internet cafes; that is where they built their community. They expected me to become a security guard or a taxi driver when I got here. They expected to break me, they expected me to quit, but I persevered. Racism in the USA is a lot less subtle than in Britain, the latter being perhaps more repulsive. My time is constantly being taken away from me, and that might be the only thing I do not miss, now that I am famous.”

 

Linen and polyester flags are displayed on the walls of two rooms. Others take on the shape of postcards of various formats and colours which the public can and should take home. They are part of Malawian modernism. “I make flags on my cell phone, just like a DJ who combines colours and shapes. It takes talent and sensibility. Of course, kids these days are probably better than me. With time, I realised that the simpler, the better. It stemmed from these chewing gums there were when we were kids that came with flags. It is a way of expanding my childhood collection. These flags are usually made by women. Yes, it is in flags that I probably find time. Manual work takes time and makes us appreciate time. The repetitive, abstract patterns in my films are like the ones in these flags. I think of this idea of going to prison to do time. People see it as something dignifying. Going to prison is not a choice, it never is. But it is a sort of challenge. Only very wealthy or very poor people have that time. There is a competition around suffering that is seen as a sign of dignity. People talk about loss, they flaunt tattoos and scars. Here, in Europe, suffering is concealed. In Africa, it is proudly flaunted.” I realise that the time of sovereigns comes from other people’s subordination, especially black people’s. The time taken away from black people multiplies white people’s time, as Françoise Vergès has taught us.

 

We return once more to Chilembwe, although there is much more to see and discover in Fracture Empire. “He is the first African who united Malawian people as a nation, instead of separate tribes. His death was the decisive factor. The British had separated us; that had been their strategy. He was a Pan-Africanist who fought for union. This was a sculpture which I had to make. It is History. The Londoners had no saying in it; I knew right away which statue I would put on Trafalgar Square. I believe in the inevitability of our time. When it is our turn, no one can stop us. He left a message of confidence, of hope that someone would decipher that sign. The statue will stay in Trafalgar Square for two years, sending messages of hope and equality. As a symbol and a sign of the current times.”

 

Samson Kambalu

Culturgest

 

Gisela Casimiro (Guiné-Bissau, 1984) is a Portuguese writer, artist and activist. She published Erosão (Urutau, 2018) and was part of anthologies such as Rio das Pérolas (Ipsis Verbis, 2020), Venceremos! Chosen speeches by Thomas Sankara (Falas Afrikanas, 2020) and As Penélopes (Bairro dos Livros, 2021). In recent years she has written regular chronicles in Hoje Macau, Buala and Contemporânea. She also participated in exhibitions at O Armário, Galeria Zé dos Bois, Balcony and the National Museum of Ethnology. She directs the Culture department at INMUNE: Instituto da Mulher Negra em Portugal.

 

Translation: Diana Gaspar

Proofreading: Diogo Montenegro.

 

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Samson Kambalu, Fracture Empire. Exhibition views at Culturgest. Photos: António Jorge da Silva. Courtesy of the artist and Culturgest/Fundação Caixa Geral de Depósitos.

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