By Innocent Madzhoni

My wallpaper is a sublime painting of Van Gogh, that artistic genius who sold one painting during his lifetime. Yes, his life was short-lived, dying at the age of thirty-Seven by suicide. (Also, there’s something about artists & premature death.) But his work was so visionary and futuristic, one of the giants in the post-impressionist artistry, and I believe he shouldn’t have starved a day in his life, but he did. To the inevitable point of committing suicide because poverty was his daily bread.

However, I don’t think Van Gogh was pushed to the extremes of pulling that trigger on his chest, with the bullets literally wrecking his imaginations and incredible mind, because of the immoderations of debts he was in. I believe he reached that point due to the appreciation he wasn’t receiving.

His head couldn’t handle how he is manifesting such brilliant art works, yet he is not attaining critical acclaim. This true for many artists, who find themselves fighting the genius in their being and the nothingness that surrounds the creation brought forth by their genius efforts.

I attentively stare at my wallpaper for inspiration to write, I often do that before I write anything. My muses are odd things.

I than scroll sideways to search for my music app. Then comes the everyday struggle: choosing what song or artist or genre to play for the day. You see, I play music religiously, when I am sitting down at home, I play albums, I also have an obsession with album covers; when I am out there, in the dirty barracks of existence, i.e., the township streets, I listen to live performances.

Because I am at home, I decide on Robert Johnson’s King of the Delta Blues Singers, Vol. II. As I write, I can hear the strings of his magnificent guitar & singing breaking the heavy burdens spread across my tiny heart.

Must be pure coincidence because Robert who died at the age of 27, without any impact and influence during his lifetime, is of the greatest artists in the segment of Blues music. He is even considered the master of Blues. The man had no public recognition to the point that his biography was hard to pen down because he was almost an invisible genius. There were even believes that none of his photography were available until the late 80s.

Let’s deal with what I hate, Numbers:

1. Scott Fitzgerald, the American novelist & short story writer, dead believing he was a failure, that his work was mediocre. Right now, The Great Gatsby is one the greatest novels around the world. The movie, with Leonardo DiCaprio as the lead character, based on The Great Gatsby is a favorable one to many people around the world. Did you know that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, directed by David Fincher and with the cast of Brad Pitt, is based on a short story by Scott?
2. Might be a shock, but yes, William Shakespeare wasn’t Beyoncé & Jay Z famous, he was popular, but he wasn’t the most famous person. It’s given there were people who passed him around without giving him his props. Who would pass Beyoncé knowingly? A lot of people would, but she is a world star.
3. Arthur Schopenhauer, the German philosopher, wasn’t recognized as one the greatest philosophers during his lifetime. He actually quit lecturing because roughly less than five students would attend his lectures. Arthur’s mother was well known in some literary cycles in Germany, because she wrote a couple of books which were well received. When she read Arthur’s dissertation, The World as Will and Representation, she said no one would buy and read the book because it was incomprehensible. The philosopher said people will read his books when the ‘nonsense’ his mother was writing had been totally forgotten. I don’t think Arthur was wrong.
4. Roughly Eleven people attended Karl Marx’s funeral. Yes, that bearded man who still drives poor black people crazy died broke & almost forgotten.
5. Had a friend of Franz Kafka, Max Brod, respected his wishes to burn all his work after his death, we wouldn’t be here reading Kakfa’s soul-piercing work. Kafka wasn’t even known during his lifetime, with publishing houses rejecting his work.
6. Many people’s favorite poet, Oscar Wilde, wasn’t appreciated during his lifetime, even to the point of dying bankrupt. At some point in his life, what brought him attention was his imprisonment.

I could go on and on and on with the list. But as numbers increase, my head begins to explode.

The argument which I am trying to bring to your attention is, being the biggest doesn’t automatically mean one is the greatest. As an artist, just because you’re currently – perhaps this might even stretch to your demise – not the biggest artist doesn’t mean you are not the greatest.

The worst propaganda to believe is thinking that the greatness of one’s art is measured by how famous they are. Also, it would be unfortunate to think that because one is currently the biggest therefore their art is equally great. Nonetheless, it is important to note that one can be the biggest & the greatest.

We live, or maybe we have always lived, in a time where if a person doesn’t have enough money to show for their art, their art is then disregarded. For people to respect your art, you have to be somewhat famous. It then becomes hard for artists who are profound to find expression because people nowadays love ‘sentimental’ and amateurish art. It is either that or they merely love certain people because of their personalities not due to art.

Those of you who are conscious enough you might have realized that out of the abovementioned six public figures, not even one is black.

This piece will then address how difficult it must be for black artists to be the greatest because their work is not found after their deaths, or their work is then ignored when found. Firstly, it is difficult for black artists to get recognition when they are alive because black people don’t buy art. They don’t buy it because it is decision between bread or a painting. No one would choose a painting over bread.

Secondly, it’s difficult for black people’s art to be appreciated since we have always been made to believe that white art is much better than our art (that’s if there’s such a thing as ‘our art’). A seemly intelligent schoolchild in the township will be forced to read Nora Roberts, Stephen King, or Jane Austen, instead of Zukiswa Wanner, Tsitsi Dangarembga, or Niq Mhlongo. It is that fact that we know Picasso but not Basquiat. It is that sick fact that we can name white philosophers & writers till breath escapes us, but morning will eventually turn into evening as we laughably say, ‘Hayi mani, remember that one? I mean that one…’ when we have to mention black intellectuals.

‘That one’ is then eventually forgotten because they have also escaped our lips.

All in all, Artists do not despair because you are still the greatest even if fame is far away from you. Don’t say you are a bad artist because money is not coming your way; just keep working, keep ON creating, just keep on being God.

An afterthought: As I write this, I’m sort of having flashes of all the artists & intellectuals who died before the age of forty. Worse those who left us through suicide – it’s a considerably huge percentage. And I am linking that to how sometimes depression can easily creep in when one’s mind & heart are not appreciated. Be Kind to Artists!