Artists' Studios

Since there are no art galleries in Kinshasa, the only way to buy is to visit the artists in person. It was a hot afternoon and we were in a hunt for the studios of the two “names” in the art world. To reach the first requires local knowledge that it will take a long time to acquire.

We have a street name and number but that’s not always helpful as most streets have no name boards and many houses have no numbers. Instead people navigate by landmarks, and to find the place required several phone calls to the artist, followed by much asking of directions at street corners.

As we follow one tiny street after another in an ever more confusing maze we wonder how the driver will even know how to get back. Eventually we’re there. A large metal gate is opened and we see a very humble house looking onto a dirt yard, and with paintings already on display on a verandah. The artist is elderly, short and quite stout, and produces huge canvases, populated in many cases by famous people – the Obamas, Bin Ladens, Sarkozys etc of this world. Other paintings have a social and allegorical theme. He has real ability with faces and some of his people have extraordinary vitality. One picture which catches my eye is about himself – it is a surrealist painting of him in a variety of situations and in a variety of different scales so that, for example the shoulder of his jacket in one scale is a cliff up which he is climbing in another scale. His two little daughters sit prominently in the foreground on his arm – drawn with astonishing vitality and completely lifelike.

We are with someone who is thinking of buying one as a present: she photographs her favourite, which is an almost life-size spiv – Sapeur is the word used for such people in Kinshasa – wearing the bling of his kind, and gazing out of the canvas with a satisfied, but curiously ironic smile which says “I’ve made it”. The price: 4000 euros.

There is another, even better known, artist living in the same general area and with the same last name. We ask about him. Our artist is reluctant to steer us to a competitor, but eventually relents, and we are on our way. It is only about one kilometre away, but this time there’s no need to ask whether we’ve arrived at the right place. Certainly not! his name is written in 3D letters on the wall, which is painted a bright yellow, edged in purple; topped by razor wire and secured by video cameras. This is someone in a different league. We are told that one of his paintings recently went for several million dollars in Sothebys.

A notice on the wall rudely tells us that he’s not in the country and there’s no point insisting on seeing him because he’s not there. Which suggests that he is there, probably dodging the tax man. But ring the bell as we might, there’s no response. People in the street disagree with our interpretation of the facts and think that he’s in Belgium or Paris or somewhere similarly cosmopolitan.

We return frustrated at the lack of awareness of both artists of the value of good relationships with clients as well as the pervasive need for secrecy. But at the same time we’re quite excited to have found them and to know that we can come back.

A few months later we go to another studio. This is in a commercial area, and the artist shares the yard outside a half-built shop with a couple of other entrepreneurs. On the upper floor of the shop is a makeshift church. Someone’s family lives downstairs, and we make our way in through sheets hanging on laundry lines.

Like many Congolese artists, having found a formula that sells he sticks to it. In this case it is a bunch of fuzzy figures. You can have black figures on a white ground, or vice versa. If you like you can have red figures on a black ground, or white figures on a red ground, etc. And of course, there are big ones, medium ones and small ones. Something for everyone’s pocket. Some of them a quite attractive, and our friend, who is leaving shortly and is determined to buy one, spends hours deciding which one.

There’s another way of seeing art. That is to go to the annual art show organised by the grand dame of the arts at her enormous establishment. This exhibition is set in a glorious tropical garden. Beer and soft drinks are provided free of charge by the breweries, and everyone who is anyone is there – probably more than 1000 people.

The works are hung around two sides of a square. On the third side of the square is a stage on which there will be demonstrations of ballet dancing by children who attend the grand dame’s daughter’s ballet school. A clever trick to get the hundreds of adoring parents to attend.

Each artist has been given about three metres of wall space on which to hand his work.

It is so much the same as last year’s that it is hard to get excited. The formulaic styles begin to grate.

There’s a woman standing alone whom I vaguely recognise.

“Are you enjoying it?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” she replies, putting on a somewhat supercilious look. This is not going to be easy.

“I think it’s a bit similar to last year’s”, I say, not wanting to be too forthright about my feeling which was that

a.     The artists clearly have never done life drawing, as the figures are embarrassingly bad;

b.     There is no observation of the world in which they live. I long for a household scene, a landscape, even a still life.

c.      There is not a single portrait.

Then noting the way she waved to one of the artists standing next to his work, I ask, “Do you know him?”

“Of course,” she said, “I know almost all of them. You see my husband is the head of the Academie des Beaux Arts and has been for 20 years”.

I held my tongue.