Staffrider Vol.3 No.4 Dec-Jan 1980 - DISA

Poor Business for the ArtistBy Nangirayi MajoTembo sat down beside his visitor who was going throughhis pictures with a surprised look.'I didn't expect you to succeed to this extent. Is there awhite behind this?' Godfrey asked, tapping on one of thepictures. 'You should be getting somewhere at least.'Tembo snorted, 'This is this country and you don't getanywhere.''Why?' Godfrey was surprised. 'You have got your brushesand paint — and loads of talent. What else do you want?'Tembo did not answer. He went to a chest of drawers andbrought back some copper engravings which he laid out onthe table.'These are fantastic! Did you do these too?' Godfrey waswide eyed.Tembo did not answer him. He felt a little sorry for hisfriend. He thought him a little too naive — or pitifully misinformed.Godfrey had just come back home from six years'exile overseas.'I told you nothing has changed,' Tembo tried to explainto him, knowing it was useless. 'Don't take in everything thepapers tell you.''Come on. You must be making loads of money with thiskind of work.' Godfrey thought Tembo was unforgivablybelittling his own talent. 'How much is this one?''That's an order the boss gave me to do this weekend.Some rich tourist wants it on Wednesday. I'll probably get$60 commission on it.''You must be joking! How much are they paying you permonth?'Tembo thought of going into detail, to give his friend thetrue picture, but how could he do it to someone who hadcome back full of hopes about the changes for the better thathe had read about miles and miles away from home, dreamingof dovi and sadza? How could he explain to him thatmost of the time he had not even a cent in his pocket? Thathe didn't even have a savings account? The little he earned hespent on beer. That was his only source of happiness, he toldhimself, and as for the material things — he would just forgetthat.'Thirty dollars per week is what's mine,' he-finally said.'For -this, this - ?''I can't force you to believe me.'Godfrey looked at his friend for some time, his head in hishands, then he straightened up and said, 'Look, why don'tyou drop the job and do your own thing? I see no reasonwhy you should work yourself to pieces for somebody else'sbelly.''Give me the money and the market,' Tembo said sarcastically.Godfrey seemed to digest this. He was beginning to understand.He said, 'But there are some blacks who are living inquite a style. Where do they get the money from? They can'tbe all that fortunate if what you are saying is true.''In hard times like these people become prostitutes.''Come on — they can't all be crooks.'Tembo looked at Godfrey sadly. 'You have been away along time. I can't even begin to tell you how many thingshave taken place.''Things like what?''There are more slums now than when you left.''But there are also rich blacks living in once-white-onlyhouses. Have you tried selling your work to them?''And listen to them telling me to find a better job? Somedon't even know how to look at a picture. Money is for living— property and big names, not art.'Godfrey looked at his friend gravely. When he spoke hisvoice was low. 'There are many people I know — acquaintances,schoolmates — influential people who really thinkyour work is great. They tell me the only trouble with you ispride. I hear that you have even turned down some ordersthey gave you.''Lies,' Tembo said weakly.He stood up and went to the window. What Godfrey hadsaid was partly true. There were some patronising blacks whohad approached him for portraits or other such sentimentalthings and he had told them he had no time. How could hetell Godfrey that what these people wanted wasn't his paintingsbut big names for themselves? Something to show off totheir white friends over Sunday teas and sundowners? Theywere afraid to be embarrassed by their white friends whoreally knew what art was all about. Wasn't it strange thatthose blacks who now praised him for his work had beenintroduced to it by some whites who lived miles and worldsaway from them?However badly he needed money, Tembo felt he hadsome rights to his own self. He would do what he wanted inhis own way. He knew they knew he was great and he woulddo his best to keep them aware of it. It gave him a beautifulfeeling inside, although most of the time he felt bad whenless artistic friends of his exchanged their works for Mustangs,Alfa Romeos, Datsuns and posh houses in the suburbs.Even those he had taught to put brush to canvas simply tookwhat they wanted from him, learned a few tricks, sold two orthree portraits of some big politician, then bought a car and aTV set, became screaming successes overnight — and left him.He liked it least when he felt like a cheap, fraudulentfame-monger, blaming his failure on the situation of thecountry, stealing little artefacts behind his boss's back andselling them in the beerhalls and the streets for a mug ofbeer. And he would feel even worse when all the beer hadbeen drunk and he would start telling his drunken friendswhat a great artist he was.'And I know another great weakness of yours.' Godfreystood beside him at the window. He didn't wait for Temboto ask him what he meant. 'Drink. Nothing comes to anyoneon a platter and I might as well tell you right now, as afriend, that if you don't pull yourself together, do somehonest work and stop feeling all-important, self-pitying andignored, you might yet do something people will rememberyou by.'Tembo didn't answer.'Look, Tembo. Do me a favour. Just let me have one ortwo of your paintings. I have some friends overseas whomight be interested to know that you exist.'Tembo took a long time to answer. When he did, he wasstill looking out of the window. 'They won't sell.''Never mind whether they will sell or not. Just leave thatto me.' Godfrey was quiet for some time. 'Will you do thatfor me?''If you insist.''Good.When Godfrey left, Tembo thought about a painting hewas doing. It had taken him over a month now but hecouldn't get it right. He looked at it for a long time. Hewanted it to carry a lot of things, this face of his grandmother;all the things that he had felt and she had felt and allthose people who mattered to him had felt. But he couldn'tSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 13