The last day of the year Zanele Muholi - TATE MODERN

Un Muholi Zanele de près. *Muholi V*, Bronze, 2023.

At the beginning of December, I still had no idea how I was going to end the year. Strangely, something inside me was convinced that the way I spent the last day of the year would determine the overall direction of the New Year we were about to enter. (Or how to put unnecessary pressure on yourself for no reason.) It’s, of course, pure superstition reflecting the selective illogic of my mind, since I spend most of my time procrastinating the other days of the year without really worrying about the consequences it might have on my future.

Anyway, one thing was certain: I wanted to leave Brussels. Escape for at least 24 hours (as if I hadn’t just spent the last two years constantly on the move). So, I booked a last-minute train ticket on snap.eurostar.com (great deal for small budgets – spread the word), and on the evening of the 30th, I left the continent without a second thought.

I almost regretted it the next day when I realized the absolute chaos that London’s city center turns into on December 31st. Shops and public places close at random hours, bridges are blocked without any warning, which nearly left me stranded on the wrong side of the Thames. Add to that the Tube shutting down at 6 p.m., and I was this close to spending New Year's Eve alone, curled up in a dark street in South London.

So, it’s safe to say I had my fair share of stress and disillusionment. But one thing that went off without a hitch was my visit to the Tate Modern for the retrospective exhibition of Zanele Muholi – June 6, 2024 > January 26, 2025.

*Katlego Mashiloane and Nosipho Lavuta, Ext. 2, Lakeside, Johannesburg*, 2007. C-Print sur papier.

Zanele Muholi is a South African visual artist and activist who has spent much of her career documenting the lives of LGBTQIA+ and queer people in South Africa. The Tate is offering us a retrospective of some of her landmark projects since the 2000s.

Until now, I only knew a rough image of the artist, based on her famous high-contrast self-portraits where her gaze seems to pierce through the lens. Between us, I’ve developed over time some traumas and phobias that get triggered in art spaces – and more specifically in contemporary African art. One of these being "white voyeurism" towards the suffering of Black bodies. That’s why I had avoided looking too closely at Zanele Muholi's work until now, most of which consists of portraits of Black, lesbian, trans, and queer people – lined up by the hundreds in this particular case along the walls of the Tate – for fear of being near other visitors who might be ready to reduce them to their physical shells.

But this was precisely an opportunity to confront these questions that I, as an artist, struggle with every day. Should Black artists continue to show the suffering of Black bodies in white spaces? Can we exist solely as artists, or must we always carry a militant message, make visible a struggle, or highlight a part of our collective history linked to the multiple consequences of colonization? Recently, I dove back into this vast issue when I became aware of the temporary exhibition at the Musée d'Orsay – Elmgreen & Dragset – who intervene within the permanent exhibition by transforming the museum into a playful space where the public can have fun spotting the intruding pieces, thus giving the exhibition experience an entirely new meaning. Anyway, I’m digressing, but while watching a documentary about this event, I found myself envying how the duo was allowed to express their art with such lightness.

Knowing how Black bodies are spectacularized and fetishized in many contexts, this question haunts me in many ways. But it's a big issue, so I’m not going to dwell on it here and now. Let’s just say that considering how much of Zanele Muholi's career can be a real trigger, as she seeks to show the beauty of Black bodies but also the struggle, suffering, and pain, addressing topics like corrective rape*, there’s little room for lightness here. The film below, gathering interviews with London and South African LGBTQUIA+ figures (some of whom were photographed by Muholi), especially tackles the question: can the Tate be (or not be) an appropriate space for hosting this type of exhibition?

From a place of love - Zanele Muhoii - Tate

09:08:

[This is art. Look how fantastically beautiful it is. But it still comes across as activism, as visual activism because this is not allowed to just be.]

C’est de l’art. Regardez comme c’est merveilleusement beau. Mais c’est présenté comme de la militance, de l’art visuel militant parce que ce n’est pas autorisé à juste exister.

Everything is said. And it doesn’t resolve my inner conflicts about the weight still given to spaces like the Tate to boost the credibility of artists from marginalized communities. But somewhere, it’s good to remind myself that many of us share this critique. I did, however, appreciate how the scenography helped me swallow the bitterness of this eternal observation, especially by offering sensory, human, and historical contextualization elements.

*****************************************************************************************************

A QR code greets us right at the entrance of the exhibition, inviting us to immerse ourselves in the soundscapes created by Toya Delzy. This method personally allowed me to lift the veil that had been weighing on my heart when I first saw the photographs. I felt grateful because, in addition to that, I am one of those people who usually spends a considerable amount of time in the entrance hall of an exhibition, trying to select the perfect playlist to accompany the experience. I can only celebrate when it’s served on a platter.

Next, in the third room, a long timeline connects the history of South Africans’ fight against apartheid with the struggle for LGBTQIA+ rights in the country, also marking the birth of the artist. This highlights ground-level struggles, which often serve as fertile soil for new forms of artistic expression that, in their own way, contribute to the archives of a moment. And it reminds us that we are mere pawns on a vast chessboard of struggles, serving those who come after us through the work of those who came before us.

Finally, in a black box, just before entering the last room, the portraits that had been silently watching us a few moments earlier come to life in a series of interviews, retracing their life journeys, their entry into activism, various joys and pains, and their vision of Love. Watching this film, I began to form a small response to my turmoil. Lightness may be destined to stay behind museum doors, but it certainly exists. In the exchanges and trust these individuals placed in the artist during the photo sessions. In the intimacy of the studio. In the moments of joy that emerge from moments of struggle. In the sense of accomplishment felt by people who are too often overlooked. Maybe this part of history isn’t meant to belong to everyone, but only to those on the frontlines. Maybe that’s what I need to keep in mind in my own practice. Who knows.

ANYWAY. I didn’t take photos of the last room, which was wallpapered from floor to ceiling with portraits of the artist, whose gazes – like hundreds of MONA LISA’s – never let you go. Feeling uncomfortable, I quickly left the place, with a pressing urge to go to confession. A surprise surge of a completely different kind of trauma, likely linked to my Catholic upbringing. So, I’ll leave you with my last self-portrait of the year. And let’s hope that 2025 will be full of lightness, subtly shared.

IF YOUR CURIOUS

https://awarewomenartists.com/artiste/zanele-muholi/
https://www.artnews.com/list/art-news/artists/zanele-muholi-who-is-why-so-important-tate-modern-survey-1234722305/

*Corrective or punitive rape is a homophobic practice that involves sexually assaulting a person perceived as lesbian or gay in order to "cure" them of their homosexuality.

https://www.ohchr.org/fr/opinion-editorial/2011/07/shocking-reality-homophobic-rape-navi-pillay-published-asian-age-and