When I first encountered Grace NYAHANGARE (Zimbabwe) work, what struck me most were the figures—their fluid, shifting forms. They immediately reminded me of how women adapt to the many situations life demands of us: how we bend, reshape ourselves, heal, and keep moving forward. There is something deeply familiar in these bodies, as if they carry not just her story but a collective one about womanhood. I wanted to understand how she builds these forms, how her personal history shapes her art, and how, as a Black woman artist in Zimbabwe, she transforms vulnerability into strength.

How did your journey as an artist begin?

I decided to become an artist after high school. While I was in school, I loved drawing, and I was quite good at it, but I never thought it could be my career. After graduating, I found myself in that uncertain period when I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. At that time, I had also lost contact with the arts. Around that period, I met an artist who was always carrying his works around. I became curious, and we started talking. He encouraged me, told me I was talented, and suggested I apply to the National Gallery School of Visual Arts and Design. I was on a long break waiting, so it was the perfect time. I started drawing again. Enrolling there marked the real beginning of my career.

Later, you studied printmaking and photography, which strongly shaped your style. What drew you to these mediums?

Most of my ideas come from memories, from personal and collective traumas. At the School of Visual Arts and Design, I really wanted to experiment, and at that time, printmaking and photography gave me the right tools to work with these themes. Later, painting and printmaking together became a way for me to connect the past, the present, and the future in one space. 

Your female figures have a very unique, fluid form. When I first saw your paintings, I felt they reflected how women adapt, heal, and reshape themselves through life. How do you compose these figures, and what do they express for you?

Through my work, I talk about my own story: where I come from, who I am now, and who I hope to become. My figures are inspired by insecurities—especially my own. Growing up, I was very short, and people often thought I was younger than I was. It made me insecure. But later, I began to see it differently: being small can also mean being seen as youthful.

Motherhood deepened this reflection. After giving birth, I felt like I had lost my body for a while. Many women I know share this insecurity after childbirth. Through my figures, I explore these inner struggles. The bodies I paint are often distorted or fragmented—they show the inner self rather than just outward appearance.

How did motherhood change your perspective on art, your body, and your identity?

Motherhood made me stronger. The art world is demanding, and motherhood is often spoken about but rarely understood unless you’ve lived it. For me, it became a source of courage.I want my daughter to grow up seeing me as strong, confident, and true to myself. That gave me resilience not only as a mother but also as an artist and activist for women. It also helped me accept that everyone—men and women alike—carries insecurities. By speaking openly about them, I can turn vulnerability into strength. That’s why, even when I deal with dark themes, I use bright colors: to show hope within struggle.

What are the biggest challenges of being a Black woman artist in Zimbabwe today?

At art school, there were maybe 20 of us—only five women. Out of those, only three are still practicing. Many women stop because of responsibilities. Motherhood, cultural expectations, or the pressure to marry can make it hard to continue.

But at the same time, it forces you to develop resilience. If you push through, you stand out as a leader. So while it’s difficult, it can also be empowering. Times are changing, though—more women are now pursuing their dreams to become artists or to build careers.

Your paintings often have a dreamlike, surreal atmosphere. How did you develop this style? What is your creative process like?

Much of my work comes from memory, and memory is blurry. You remember fragments, but not everything. That’s why many of my paintings have hazy or indistinct backgrounds: they represent that middle space between past, present, and future. Sometimes I can’t recall everything, so I only paint fragments.

Technically, my printmaking background shaped my process. Printmaking is a kind of reverse painting—you have to step back and reconsider the image. That idea shaped the way I create: I look back, I revisit experiences, I try to capture what remains. That inspired me to create in layers. I usually start with the background, which for me is the foundation—the past on which everything else stands. Then I build forward, layering present and future on top. The last layer is often a print—like rewinding what has already happened, yet still keeping it part of the story.  

You often combine oil paint and ink. How do you balance these materials?

I often combine ink with oil paint because together they create a special kind of vibrancy. The colors become rich, but not overly shiny—there’s a soft glow to them. Since I work a lot with monotype printing, I discovered that ink and oil paint balance each other well. Both are durable, and when combined, they “communicate” beautifully on the surface. For me, this is also about constant experimentation. Nothing is ever completely fixed in my process—I’m always testing, layering, and searching for harmony. Over time, I’ve found that this mix of materials gives me exactly that balance.

I’ve noticed you also make sketches. How do they connect to your paintings?

Most of the time, I begin with sketches. Sketching is practice—it’s where growth happens. I often sketch figures realistically, so that I understand their form first before disfiguring or distorting them on canvas. Sometimes I start a painting with one continuous line, letting it flow. Other times, I return and add more fragments. And sometimes the sketch itself stays on paper and never makes it onto the canvas. It depends on my mood and the story I’m trying to tell.

In some works, I see small motifs—patterns, like symbols. Can you tell me more about them?

The motifs often come from my surroundings. At my studio in Domboshava, I’m surrounded by trees, and their shapes inspired some of the patterns. But when I was in Nigeria for a residency, I was inspired by a local folktale about healing waters—hot springs that merge together at a meeting point. That flowing, rope-like form became part of the dress in one of my works. The smaller motifs inside it were based on the fig trees around that area. These motifs are also linked to memory. I sometimes scratch or rub the surface, creating both erasure and new paths—like trying to escape the past, yet acknowledging it shapes who we are.

Your connection between womanhood and nature reminds me of ecofeminism. Do you feel this link too?

Yes, absolutely. In Zimbabwe, there’s a belief that when a child is born, the umbilical cord should be buried in the ground—only the mother knows where. I later discovered this is also practiced in other cultures, even in Turkey, where my daughter’s family is from .This made me realize how deeply connected we are to nature. We come from the earth, and we return to it. “From dust to dust.” For me, that connection is very real, even if I can’t explain it scientifically.

Who inspires you? Do you have role models?

I’m inspired by strong women, especially Frida Kahlo. She went through so much pain—surgeries, illness—but remained powerful and authentic. I relate to her because I also had surgery when giving birth. I’m also deeply inspired by my own personal story. Sharing it can feel scary at times, but I believe it’s important—because when others hear it, my experiences become part of history. This interview itself is a way of being written into that history, of allowing people to know more about my work and my journey. I hope to be one of those women whose stories inspire other women. What motivates me most is the idea of empowering women and uplifting the arts through a female perspective.  It’s how we, as women, can inspire each other.

How can personal stories become universal messages?

I think sharing personal stories can be very tricky—it’s like standing naked in front of the world. It can leave you feeling exposed, even ashamed, because some parts of your life you’d prefer to keep private. But at the same time, I believe authenticity is essential. When I am honest with myself and bring something truly genuine into my work, I can stand by it, defend it, and even use it to break down barriers. Because my art comes from a very personal and vulnerable place, it carries a strength of its own. The story is already there, and it gives the work its weight. That’s why, when people ask me about it, the words flow easily—it’s the truth, and there are no lies behind it.

You mentioned bright colors. How do you choose your palette? Is it intuitive or planned?

Both. Green is my favorite—I use it often because it calms me. I also use orange a lot, because my gallerist, Valerie Kabov, once told me, “Orange is your friend.” Colors are emotional for me. Sometimes I paint a layer, then return later with a different mood and paint over it. Transparency also plays a big role—it reflects how even when we’re open, parts of us remain hidden.

Your faces sometimes remind me of Picasso, though in a very personal way. How do you approach painting faces?

It wasn’t intentional, but later, after studying Picasso, I noticed some similarities in my work. The faces I paint usually come from people I’ve seen—strangers, fleeting encounters, memories, or emotions. Sometimes they’re based on old photographs, other times on people around me. But they are never exact portraits. Instead, they are semi-realistic fragments, impressions rather than clear likenesses—because memory itself is never perfect.

You often combine multiple faces and bodies in one work, like fragments of identity. Is this about finding yourself within the crowd?

Yes. I’m the youngest of five children, so I grew up always trying to fit in. In the art world, too, we’re surrounded by so many artists. For me, painting many faces and fragments reflects that: we’re part of a crowd, but we each have to find our own identity and stay true to it.

What does “Black joy” mean to you?

For me, Black joy is about being comfortable and true to yourself—loving who you are, your culture, your community—and sharing that love with others.

How do you see the current situation of Black art?

In Zimbabwe, we don’t really talk about “Black art” because we are surrounded by Black people. For me, I’m just making art. But it’s good that African art is gaining more visibility globally. Sharing our stories is powerful—not only for the world to see, but also for our own children to recognize themselves in those stories.

Let’s talk about your first solo show at First Floor Gallery Harare, Hatikanganwi Asi Tinopora (“We don’t forget, but we heal”). How did it come about?

That show was deeply personal. It came from my time in the UAE, which was one of the hardest periods of my life. I won’t go into details, but it was a painful experience that affected my mental health. When I returned to Zimbabwe, I poured all of that into my work. Even though the paintings were bright, they carried the weight of trauma and healing. I created most of them with my daughter by my side in the studio. It was exhausting but also healing. That exhibition changed my life. It proved to me that even as a young mother, I could create powerful work and break barriers. I’m very grateful to the First Floor team for supporting me through it.

How did your career change after working with First Floor Gallery?

My career grew quickly. I gained international opportunities, residencies, and exposure. But most importantly, I became part of a strong, supportive community. The gallery is led by a woman, and the team feels like a family. That kind of support is rare and has made me stronger as an artist.

What are you currently working on?

When I first began preparing for my next solo exhibition opening in October, I wanted to call it M1—short for Mother of One. The idea was to explore what it means to be a mother of one child, the judgments around it, and I even did some research on that theme. But as I worked, something shifted. Throughout the process, I gained confidence, and I no longer felt the need to define the show through that label. So the title and the focus changed along with me.