Visual artist Samson Mnisi is a celestial star that never fades

By Sandile Memela

A CELESTIAL STAR NEVER FADES Samson Mnisi was a visual artist, a painter who was clear about who he is and why he was on earth. I think he was the sort of man who understood his duty to himself and to God. And he put that first before any cheap patriotism or national duty to his country and its people.. Whenever I saw or bumped into him at the Newtown Cultural Precinct, we would enjoy banter. He was deep and philosophical. Quite argumentative.

There was something about his good looks that reminded  me of the iconic painter, David Koloane. And or Fikile Magadlela. It told him so at the former’s memorial a few years ago. If correct, I first saw him as a youngster at FUBA. We did not speak much but we made eye contact and small talk. What struck me most about him was that he epitomized the Steve Biko philosophy of ‘black man, you are on your own.’ He was without anxious dependence on corporate sponsors or government.

Nor did he seek approval. He completely immersed himself in his art without being preoccupied with being a superstar or desire to be noticed. Yet in a sly way, he desired acknowledgement and recognition for nothing else but his art. Artists, some of them, love attention. He was not one of those. I found his work to be too abstract and of a celestial nature.

It was the sort of work that was beyond my comprehension. It demanded deep thinking based on self-introspection that questioned ones relationship with God and or ancestral spirits. He delved into places where only geniuses and angels could tread. It was deeply spiritual work that was out of this world. Metaphysical. When he moved back to work in the townships, he invited me to see what he was doing. I never honoured the invite. His studio was somewhere in white city jabavu.

There is nothing white about white city. It is a monotonous row of ugly houses that look like misplaced elephants. Worse, it is bedevilled by poverty, unemployment and inequality. And it is worsened by hopeless youth, drugs and violence.

I have a family that stays there. In fact, I spent parts of my childhood there during school holidays in the late 1960s to early 70s. We would be congested in 132A, the address is still engraved in my soul. But this is where Samson chose to go settle and work, among his people to inspire the youth. He was neither Biko nor Nelson Mandela.

He knew that he could not change the world. The only world he could change was his own. And he introduced radical changes to his world that transformed lives, especially young people that he advised to draw 100 paintings for him to look at.

It was a test of focus, resilience and commitment. You see, Sam looked zonked at times. I know that he openly and proudly smoked dagga. Many artists do, for whatever reason. No reason to judge them as it is legalized and a medicinal herb, for some. And when he was high, he would seek me out for critical engagement or pick up some spiritual or philosophical argument. He was the sort of artist who had no time for the ANC or the politics of liberation.

I may be wrong. But Sam rarely blamed or condemned the government for anything. Or obsessed about politics. He believed that the duty of the artist is to be true to himself and God. His business was to do what he was out on earth to do: to express and articulate that which stirred within his soul. No matter how crazy or incomprehensible to half-wits.

If anything, what I observed and learned from him was that to be happy, a man does not have to amuse himself with hopes and high expectations.

He just had to be consistent in doing what he was doing. You see, for focus and cosistency and determination and commitment, Sam could spend 10 years practising to draw a circle in every shape imaginable. Think about that.

How many circles must you do to be the best artist to draw circles on earth? Yes, he was that kind of artist: focused, disciplined, determined and hard working. Above all, he did it because he CHOSE to do that. He was mot a victim.

For him, an artist must live with the consequences of his choice. Worse, he must expect no reward. If it comes, fine. If it does not, it is a test of resilience and faith. And this is where Sam and God met. He did not disappoint God or whatever ancestral spirits that used him as an instrument. He was a tool of the spiritual gods. Look at his art, if you will.

He was happy and satisfied with his life in white city jabavu, in soweto. And that is what most people would not understand. For him, his reality was sufficient. In fact, he wanted nothing from the government or corporate SA. He did not want pity from anybody.

He was a rare and unique artist who understood that God and the ancestors forged an alliance to give him everything that he wanted. And it was not money or what it could buy except for his paraphernalia. It was this realizarion that made him true to himself and be able to reach his full potential.

What we must admit is that Sam was not like most artists that shut their eyes, and like people in the dark, fall foul of realizing their power and potential. Most arrists fail to tap into their potential and inner power because they have made funding to be a priority for doing art. Like Godot, they wait for the National Arts Council to give money, before they do anything.

And yet they know that they money will disappear. Sam did not have time for what he condemned as cheap politics of what happens at the NAC, for example. Yes, he observed and was aware. He believed in an arms length relationship with the State and some of its allegedly corrupt officials on the NAC board. In fact, he believed a true artist would be considered dangerous by the State for its political power always desires to control and manipulate the messages artists project.

This consciousness is what bestowed his mind with tranquility. He possessed a state of mind which neither fortune nor poor material condition could either exalt or depress. As alluded, Sam was happy in the conditions he found himself in Soweto.

We were both men of strong views but we differed in peace. Sometimes I found him irritating, not because of what he said but because his words reeked of dagga. But his sound mind is what made him happy. Over the decades that we knew each other, there was consistency in all condition. He was argumentative but nice and respectful.

But what I loved about his return to the township was that it exhibited an ‘I dont care’ attitude to the things of this world. He was indifferent to government support or its lack. He believed in his work. He was content in the absurd conditions of the violent township.

But he was to move back to the inner city. I found that there was cheerfulness in the resolution of his brave mind. A few years ago, on Jan Smuts Avenue in Rosebank, he hung out of the window of a VW love bug blaring with music to call out my name, to make his arrival be known. I looked back, waved and smiled at this brave soul.

He possessed an invincible greatness of spirit that transcended the misery and suffering of being an artist in South Africa. They say Samson Mnisi is dead. We who understood his spirit shall not mourn. We shall celebrate his spirit, soul and life. How does a spiritual man who is a link with the ancestors die? Long live Samson Mnisi.”