Admire Kamudzengerere: Zimbabwe is not just a backdrop; it’s where my understanding of the world begins

There is something deeply intuitive in the way Admire Kamudzengerere moves between observation, research, and making — or sometimes not making at all. His process is not driven by the urgency to produce an object, but by a continuous state of attention: looking, questioning, allowing things to unfold. Perhaps this is what resonates most with me — this idea of being in a constant flow. 

Kamudzengerere’s journey also reflects this openness. From an accidental entry into an art classroom to an expansive, research-based practice, his path is shaped by encounters, environments, and a deep engagement with the social realities around him. At the same time, his work never becomes didactic, it remains grounded, intuitive, and open-ended.

Becoming an artist wasn’t a conscious decision for you. How did it begin?

It started almost by accident. I ended up in an art class I wasn’t even supposed to be in. At the time, I was studying accounting, economics, and business — art wasn’t part of my world at all. I was actually trying to avoid being sent home because I hadn’t paid my school fees, so I slipped into the art class. That’s where it began.

I didn’t think of myself as talented. But I connected with the teacher: I spent time there, talking to him, watching him draw and paint. At some point, he asked me to try. And that’s how I started making art.

You’ve mentioned that visiting galleries early on was an important turning point. Can you tell me about that first encounter with art spaces?

That was a defining moment for me. My teacher later took me to Gallery Delta (today Nhaka Gallery). It was my first time entering a gallery space and understanding what art could be. Before that, I thought art was just making portraits or drawing in the street. I didn’t know it could be exhibited, that it could live on walls, that people could come and experience it. I remember walking in and feeling something powerful, even if I didn’t yet have the words for it.

The exhibition was by Berry Bickle, who had just returned from Mozambique. It included installation, text, and video. It was immersive and intense. That experience completely shifted my perception of art. That’s also when I met Helen Lieros, who was running the gallery. From that point on, I felt encouraged to learn, to commit, and to take art seriously.

What motivated you at that time?

I didn’t really think about fame or visibility. I had no clear idea of what the future could be. The only thing I wanted was to make an artwork that could be put on a wall. That was the goal.

Your work is often about making unseen or unheard stories visible. 

At the beginning, I wasn’t thinking in those terms. But when my first exhibition came a few years later, around 2003, everything shifted. Seeing my work in a gallery for the first time, I felt like this is what art is.

One of the works was made from pieces of newspaper glued onto a wall and painted over. The sheets were fragile, almost falling apart, and I assembled them like a puzzle. When it was collected, it surprised me nd I just realized: this is actually a painting. The collector mentioned the Rijksakademie. Until then, I had no idea it existed. I thought exhibiting in a gallery was already the goal. But suddenly, I realized there was more ahead.

With Helen’s support, I started experimenting more — spending time at the gallery, almost like an informal residency. She would come in, look at my work, and ask: what are you trying to say? What does this mean? That changed everything. I began to understand that art has to communicate something.

From that point, I started working more from my own experiences. The work became more political, more intentional.

At the same time, the idea of the Rijksakademie stayed with me. It became something I was working towards, even while teaching at the National Gallery and continuing my practice. Then I met a writer who became a close friend. We spent a lot of time talking about art and ideas. I told him I wanted to develop my work and eventually apply, but I didn’t feel ready. One day, I received an email inviting me for an interview. I was confused: I hadn’t even applied. He looked at me and said: “I sent your work. I knew you wouldn’t.”

How did the Rijksakademie change your thinking about art?

It was a crucial period for me. I had the time and space to think, to process, to experiment, and to explore new ideas. I was surrounded by artists from different backgrounds, working across various mediums, and we were constantly exchanging ideas. That environment pushed me to rethink how I approach my work — how ideas emerge, how they develop, and how they take form. It allowed me to connect different themes and to better understand my own practice. It fundamentally changed the way I think about making art.

And how did that experience affect your relationship to your own community?

One thing that had already been important to me — especially since I started teaching — was creating space for other artists. The Rijksakademie helped me understand what that could really mean. 

It also shifted how I think about art itself. I kept asking: do I always have to make something? Does it have to be a painting or a sculpture? There is a constant pressure to produce objects. But that experience made me realize that work doesn’t have to take a fixed form. It can be an idea, a process, something that evolves over time.

I really appreciate that you don’t limit yourself to one medium. How do you find the right form for an idea? 

I spend a lot of time observing, researching, and trying to understand things — often in ways I can’t fully explain. A lot happens before anything becomes visible. Sometimes the process starts without a clear plan. I begin by assembling materials, and gradually a direction emerges. It’s very organic.

I don’t start with a fixed medium. I might have paint, paper, or canvas, but I don’t always use them — they’re not always the right tools. The medium has to serve the idea. There’s a constant negotiation. I’m trying to understand what I want to say, while searching for the form that can carry it — and reach the audience it’s meant for.

I spend a lot of time with people, and also a lot of time alone. Somewhere in that space, the work begins to take shape. I don’t force it, it develops over time.

I’ve noticed that your work often returns to the human condition within specific social and political contexts. Would you say that your practice is rooted in your own lived environment?

I wouldn’t frame it too formally, but yes — my work is deeply shaped by where I come from. Zimbabwe is not just a backdrop; it’s where my understanding of the world begins. It’s where I find my materials, my questions, and my language.

At the same time, we live in a highly connected world. Through media and technology, we are constantly aware of what is happening elsewhere, but for me, these global realities are always filtered through personal experience.

Growing up in Zimbabwe, during periods of economic instability and political tension, shaped how I see things. Issues like inflation, unemployment, and uncertainty were not abstract, they were part of everyday life. My work often comes from trying to understand and process these conditions. There is always a question: how do you respond to such realities? And what does it mean to speak about them?

I was also looking at art history — especially European and American painters — and responding to them from my own position. Reworking those references allowed me to question where I stand, and how my voice can exist within or against those narratives.

So even when the work engages with global ideas, it always begins from a Zimbabwean perspective.

How do you see your role as an artist? Do you feel a kind of responsibility in reflecting social realities?

I wouldn’t describe it as a heavy sense of responsibility. For me, it’s more about making life feel a little lighter. Through art, you can remind people that they are not alone. Sometimes you can even laugh at your own situation, no matter how hard it is. That moment of recognition can be powerful.

At the same time, art creates space. Space for reflection, for connection, for seeing things differently.

What I find beautiful is that art travels in ways we don’t always see. A work I made might exist somewhere else in the world, and someone I’ve never met is engaging with it — having their own thoughts, their own dialogue with it. And sometimes that connection becomes real: people tell you they’ve seen your work, or heard about you, even outside the art world. That means a lot.

But just as important is the immediate community. The artists I’ve met have become like family. We grow together, support each other, celebrate each other. That, for me, is also what art can do.

How do you give something back to your community? Could you also talk about the Animal Farm Art Residency?

When I came back from Amsterdam, I felt a strong need to create a space for other artists. That’s how Animal Farm Art Residency started. It’s a simple place, but the idea was to build a space where artists can meet, work, and support each other.

I understand how difficult it can be to find working space, materials, or even basic living support. I’ve experienced it myself, and I’ve seen it with many other artists. So the idea was to create an environment where they can come, stay, and work. They use the same materials I use, they share the same food, they stay in the same space. It’s about removing some of the barriers and giving people the opportunity to focus on their work.

At the same time, I don’t see it only as a physical space. It’s also a shared spirit between artists. Sometimes it’s in conversations, in ideas, in simply spending time together.

How do you understand this sense of connection and shared responsibility within your community?

It comes from what we understand as the culture of ubuntu. If something happens, the community responds. There is a shared responsibility, a shared care. It’s not about the individual alone. Ubuntu is often expressed as: I am because we are. So when you ask someone, ‘How are you?’ — the answer is not only about the individual. You are well if others are well.

It’s a way of understanding life that is rooted in connection, in empathy, and in collective responsibility. For me, this way of thinking shapes everything — how I relate to people, how I understand community, and also how I approach my work as an artist.

Your video work Identity (2012) reflects on the notion of identity. Could you talk about the ideas behind this work?

At that time, I was struggling with the idea of identity: what it means to be human, and how identity is constructed.

The work came from a very personal experience. I was preparing to move to Amsterdam, and the whole process — visas, travel, entering new systems — made me feel reduced to something I didn’t recognize. Everything became numbers: passport, visa, flight, bank details. Systems that define you, but don’t really see you as a person.

At the same time, I started thinking about how identity shifts depending on context. How many identities does one person carry? And who are you beyond these roles?

The work became a way of thinking through these questions — how identity can be assigned, fragmented, and constantly changing. And yet, underneath all of it, there is still a human being trying to hold these layers together.

How do you experience showing your work in different cultural contexts? 

When I exhibit in a new place, I feel the need to be present to understand the space, the people, what is happening around me. The context can shift everything. For me, the work has to respond to where it is. It has to connect to the people, the atmosphere, what is unfolding in that moment. Otherwise, it feels empty. So I don’t impose something fixed. I stay with the work, and let it develop in relation to the place and the people. That’s how I approach working across different contexts.

You represented your country at the Venice Biennale in 2017. How did it feel for you?

It was my first time in such a large and intense international context, and I experienced both excitement and a sense of failure at the same time. There was so much happening. I arrived with a clear idea, but once I was there, things shifted. The performance I presented felt real, like the right response to that environment. For me, it was important that the work existed in that space.

How do you think about performance art in general?

Performance has a different kind of power. You can look away from a painting, but with performance, you are already inside it. You can’t fully escape it: it surrounds you, confronts you. That immediacy is what I value. It can disturb you, raise questions you can’t easily answer.

At the same time, performance isn’t easy. It requires vulnerability, and there’s always the risk of becoming too exposed, too visible. But I’m drawn to it. I value the collaborative aspect — working with others, building something together. It becomes a shared language, a way of connecting beyond words.

You mentioned collaboration. How does it work for you?

I enjoy collaboration. It’s a way of connecting with people and building a shared language.

Artists have strong egos — I include myself in that — and sometimes that can be difficult, but it’s also necessary. You need conviction to create. So it becomes a balance between belief in your own ideas and openness to others.

Art is always shaped by the environment, by people, by what we encounter. Collaboration is part of that. It’s not about agreement — it’s about creating something that can hold its ground, something that stays.

How do you balance the personal and the universal in your work?

I don’t really think in terms of the ‘universal’. For me, everything starts from what is close: my immediate environment, my own experience. So I deal with what is personal, what is urgent for me. And somehow, through that, the work starts to connect to larger questions.

What is the biggest challenge of being an artist in Zimbabwe today?

When I was younger, the biggest challenge was access to time, materials, and resources to make work. Now I understand that limitations can also shape how you think, how you use materials. One of the biggest challenges is still the lack of spaces: places to show work, to experiment, to be visible. 

What are your plans for the future?

I want to make the world a better place, in a simple way. I want to collect art, to support other artists, to create opportunities. I’m interested in teaching people how to engage with art, how to build collections, how to grow the ecosystem. And I want to keep traveling, seeing more art, experiencing different places.