artist for change

With paint and passion, Makemba helps his people find self-value. Melanie Archer visits his studio

Photography by SOFT BOX STUDIOS

IF YOU want to get a quick sense of an artist’s philosophy, it is suggested that you walk into that person’s studio and take a look around, paying close attention to the works in progress hanging on the wall, sketches, open books, or even the relative cleanliness of a worktable. But, in the case of the Trinidadian artist Makemba Kunle, you’d be well advised to keep your head down: his studio floor is a better place to start.

Earlier this year, on Trinidad and Tobago’s Independence Day, I paid my first visit to Makemba’s workspace, Studio 66, a wooden structure adjacent to his house in the town of Barataria. It’s a large, open “room” with no real doors or windows, just walls where numerous, bright finished and unfinished pieces hang. Sculpted clay heads survey the scene from atop the walls; additional heads sit on a sliver of ground between the studio space and the larger property’s boundary wall. When it rains, one of these heads, with its upturned gaze, appears to be giving thanks to the skies. Hovering on a table over these heads is a life-sized wire crocodile, executed by Nigel Parris, one of Makemba’s apprentices. It looks hungry. Nearby, a tree trunk helps define a little sitting area in one corner (the rest of the tree is invisible as it continues on through the roof) and, to one side of the space, there is a room with a pink cupboard where papers and such are kept. And then there’s the floor—a beautifully colourful (if slightly dusty) mosaic of patterns, shapes and figures.

Three years ago, Makemba stood in Studio 66, looked down and thought, “We need to do something about the floor.” An artist friend suggested that they paint it—a daunting task given how much ground needed to

be covered, so Makemba rounded up a few artist friends. “Take a section,” he instructed, and the project began. At the end, some 30 artists had lent a hand. This idea of “taking a section,” of the coming together of individual talent to make something that is singularly beautiful is the concept on which Studio 66 was built. It is a communitybased space, open to anyone. “People come to help because they like what we do,” Makemba says. “It helps give their lives a sense of purpose, building their consciousness and self-value as a human being.” He tells of people from the neighbourhood who wander in, wanting to make a contribution, or of parents sending their children over to keep them occupied and out of trouble. In the studio they can learn art-related skills—from theories of colour and form, to how to frame a painting. And, best of all, they can talk about life and art—an invaluable experience that is arguably the foundation of Makemba’s practice.

In the late 1960s and early Seventies, Makemba paid almost weekly visits to the studio of Trinidadian artist Leroy Clarke whose visual style has helped shape his own work. While Clarke painted they discussed music, art, poetry, and politics. At the time, Makemba was a teacher and member of a now-extinct political party. He was always interested in art, but never studied formally. He calls secondary school the “worst days of his life” noting that he “went in bright and came out like

an idiot”. He laughs as he recounts the time he submitted a piece of art in a mathematics exam, citing a lack of effort on the part of the educators to make academics relevant to someone interested in creativity and self-expression (at that time, art wasn’t offered as a subject). From secondary education he did a stint at Mausica Teachers’ College where Isaiah Boodhoo (whom he calls “a brilliant artist”) taught painting. “There was not too much formal teaching there but, in his old talk, I learnt plenty,” Makemba says. “And, best of all, he let his students look at him while he worked.” Although he received very little formal art training, Makemba refuses to categorise himself as a “selftaught” artist. By way of justification he explains: “I read a lot and go to exhibitions and travel and gather experience about art.’’

Trinidadian artists Carlisle Harris and Alexander King have had a notable influence—both aesthetic and theoretical—over the years. In the early 1970s he exhibited his first painting at a T&T Art Society exhibition at the National Museum. From that year on he continued painting, drawing heavily on the culture around him, notably Carnival, which remains for him “a standard of aesthetic value”. While he admires Trinidadian masman Peter Minshall and notes that “it’s no coincidence that he has made it internationally using our traditions,” Makemba also laments for the state of Carnival as it is today. According to the artist, “Carnival in its varied forms across the region remains undervalued, and its possibilities for art education and self discovery largely ignored. However, the scramble to package and promote it and market it as a tourist attraction will continue till it has lost all meaning.”

Makemba supports Carnival through Studio 66’s work on Dimanche Gras stage design, and through his partnership with the Pamberi Steelband Orchestra. It seems that, in turn, Carnival supports him. “If I have a problem with a painting I think, ‘If this was a mas, how would I approach it?’ and I find the answer easily,” he says while standing in front of J’Ouvert, Last Supper, a horizontal painting prominently displayed near Studio 66’s entrance. At approximately 5’ x 9’ it is an unwieldy work, a canvas filled with a litany of dancing brushstrokes. He describes the act of painting these large works, which can take up to 10 years to complete: “I have to get up on ladder, stool, execute a few brushstrokes, climb off and step back, and climb on again.” There are no figures to be made out in J’Ouvert, Last Supper, just jumbled, ordered, pulsing layer upon layer of yellows and blues, purples, green and oranges as if one were looking at a mass of people through squinted eyes at Carnival time or, more likely, through a rum-induced haze.

On a studio wall opposite hangs a painting of deep blues that, at first, seems as abstracted as J’Ouvert, Last Supper. But, after looking at The Singer, images of musical notes appear and then, finally, we see (or have to have the artist point out) a crooning woman’s face among the brushstrokes. Makemba reveals that this painting started as a more conventional portrait of a singer he knew, but quickly grew a bit mad as he eschewed painting the likeness of the person for capturing her spirit. Others like it include the works The Dancer, The Artist, and The Poet. “I am never at a loss for ideas,” Makemba says. “I can’t understand when people talk about being in a slump. As long as I have time and resources, I can do what I want. I think I’ve done all right. ‘’ He continues, “Sometimes I see a whole painting in a dream and I paint it,” and he leads me towards a painting titled The Flood. Blue also dominates the canvas; a solitary, haunting figure stands in the middle of a loosely rendered street.

At age 40, Makemba had his first solo exhibition titled “Whe-Whe,”* for which he illustrated all of the “marks.” (He says that the guide symbols for Play-Whe—today’s popular local newspaper version of the game—are based directly on his “Whe-Whe” paintings.) Another stand-out body of work is The Last Warrior, a series of more than 100 intense apocalyptic pen and ink drawings executed in 1995, at a time that he had “just started getting into and exploring self”.

Over the years that followed, Makemba has successfully continued that exploration of self. He has had numerous solo exhibitions, the last one held earlier this year at In2Art Gallery in St Ann’s, Trinidad. There has been international acclaim as well—in 1999 he was invited to attend “Noir Black Negra,” a special exhibition event of the 52nd Cannes International Film Festival. In spite of his successes, Makemba is by no means complacent. “In my old age I want to start doing different things,” he says, but also notes that “I don’t see the impact [that my work makes] on anything that matters: corruption in the government, bad government, crime. Who am I painting for? Am I being socially responsible? I have to satisfy my own desire to express myself as I want to and, at the same time, paint for the people around me who are ignorant where art is concerned.”

Yes, this is a delicate balance to strike, but Makemba is on his way there. The day I met him

he had just returned from delivering a speech at the Carifesta symposium in Guyana. Lately, his studio has been taking on more and more training and design projects and, in a country notorious for under-funded or no arts programmes, he has found a way to pay his staff of six and other project “volunteers” for their work. “In 1970,” he says, “I made the decision that if I wanted change, I have to make those changes myself.”

Makemba is perhaps too humble to see for himself how Studio 66 has helped his community. This impact is everywhere—on the floor, in artworks executed by others that lay strewn about (delightful pieces made from found objects), and in the artist’s own paintings. Perhaps, most of all, the impact is the studio itself, an oasis of calm, creativity, collaboration, and beauty in the midst of chaotic surroundings. Entering Studio 66 on a day when the entire city seems to be going a bit crazy with celebrations, I am struck by the quiet energy of the place.

“How come you’re not out enjoying the Independence Day festivities?” I ask. “Me? Nah, I’m home, man, I really enjoy my space. You have to drag me out of here,” Makemba replies, smiling.

* Whe-Whe is an illegal numbers game of Chinese origin based on impulse, caprice, dreams, and other portents where numbers and symbols correspond with marks.