For Kimberly Tatenda Gakanje, art is not simply the production of images, but a way of navigating life — a process shaped by emotion, memory, doubt, play and transformation. Gakanje’s practice has evolved into a distinctive visual language that weaves together traditional textile techniques such as batik and tie-dye with contemporary painting, installation and performance-like gesture. Her works unfold as a personal diary of becoming, where colour, material and intuition record the shifting inner states of everyday life, inviting the viewer not merely to observe, but to enter and experience the emotional landscapes she creates.

How did your path start?

After school, my dad had to decide what my next step should be. His girlfriend noticed that I was always in my room painting — on the walls, on paper, on anything I could find. My whole space was full of drawings and little fragments of things I had made.

At first, they thought about agriculture, and I even went to Mlezu collage for a short time. But the moment I arrived there, I knew I was in the wrong place. I cried. I was scared. I knew this wasn’t my path. When I came back home, I discovered the full-time school at the National Gallery School of Visual Art and Design.

Our class was very male-dominated — many boys started the course, but only two girls actually finished. One of them was Kundai Nathan, and she introduced me to Moffat Takadiwa and the group at Mbare Art Space. That space completely changed my understanding of art. Through critique sessions, conversations and experimentation, I finally saw that art could be a real profession.

Your practice combines painting with traditional textile techniques, tie-dye and batik. Do you see yourself continuing a tradition or transforming it? How do past and present meet in your practice?

I never really liked painting in the traditional sense — I was always more drawn to textiles. So I chose painting exactly because it wasn’t comfortable for me. I decided to approach it through techniques I already felt close to: batik, tie-dye and textile processes. Instead of using them as craft or decoration, I began to use them as a form of painting itself.

Traditionally, batik and tie-dye were connected to clothing, to the body, to beautification, and often to women’s work. I took that history with me and infused it into my paintings.

You say your body of work is a personal diary. How do you mean that?

Bringing these techniques into painting allows me to work with layers, the same way I experience life. Every day carries different emotions — excitement, doubt, confidence, collapse. That’s why I see my body of work as a diary: an ongoing record of emotional movement.

What does your creative process look like?

In my process, everything begins with play. My greatest inspiration comes from children — their freedom, their fearlessness, the way they create without rules. In the studio, I try to keep that same energy alive. Sometimes I even invite my siblings to work with me, and we collaborate, because I believe in that childlike power: the feeling that you are a superhero, a conqueror.

Most of my works are non-representational. I don’t want the viewer to only see a finished image; I want them to feel part of the process itself. That’s why play is the core of my practice. I literally play in the studio.

What is the boundary between the conscious and the unconscious in your process?

For me, the unconscious appears in the moment of play. That’s when I choose my elements, lay them out, and then let go. I allow the first brushstroke to lead to the next, then to another layer, and another. During that phase I am not in control — I’m simply following the movement of the work.

The conscious part enters when I step back to structure things: when I sketch, when I plan a series, when I decide on colour choices, pattern flow, or what I want to achieve by the end of the day. That’s where intention comes in. But inside the actual process, I often surprise myself.

How do you know when a work is finished?

I think of it like getting dressed in the morning. You add one layer, then another, and at some point you just feel: this is enough. My paintings work the same way. I start with a base, then keep building. And then there’s a moment when I feel I’ve overworked it — or the opposite, that it still needs something. Colour guides me. Colour tells me when to stop, and when to continue. It’s my balance.

How do you choose your colours?

Colour reflects who I am. I’m a very happy person, so bright, popping colours appear in my work quite naturally. I also love working with opposites — if I start with yellow, I’ll move toward purple; if I go into dark tones, I always leave space for small moments of brightness inside them. Almost my entire palette is usually present in one painting, but I work carefully with shades and tones depending on my emotional state. Colour becomes a mirror of my inner world.

How do you enter your creative flow?

It begins with my dreams. I believe in dreams very deeply. When I wake up, the feeling of what I’ve dreamt already shapes my mood for the day. On my way to the studio, music continues that process.

When I arrive, I clean the space, reconnect with what I left from the day before, and listen to what my mood is telling me. Music is my strongest guide. The energy of the sound tells me whether I’m in a quiet mood, a low mood, or a powerful, open mood. 

How does something so personal become universal?

Art gave me a way to communicate what I’m feeling — even when I can’t explain it directly. This diary is not written in words — it’s written through colour, texture and form. Through that, others can connect, even if they don’t know my story.

Your work carries a strong feminine presence. How do you see that in your own practice?

For me, the feminine enters through colour and energy. At first, when people said my work was “pretty” or “girly,” I felt offended. But I’ve learned to embrace it. My colours, my patterns, the movement of the forms — that’s my voice. I celebrate that feminine side. I don’t try to change it, I’m proud of it.

How do you experience being a female artist in Zimbabwe?

I had to negotiate constantly with my family, convincing them that this is part of the career. At first, it was very hard. But over the last two years, as I’ve exhibited and travelled more, they’ve begun to understand that this is my profession, my life. Now I invite them to my exhibitions, I bring them into my world.

Being a woman in a very traditional society means constantly balancing — knowing when to speak, when to adapt, when to stand your ground. It is learning while moving forward.

Your work feels dreamlike, even cosmic. Is that intentional?

Completely. I want the viewer to escape reality and enter another world. I believe deeply in dreams, and I want people to tap into that cosmic space with me. I don’t want people to just look at my paintings. I want them to experience them.

Your paintings often balance large, expressive surfaces with very small, almost figurative details. How do you create harmony between these elements?

I think of them as “stains” — but not in a negative way. These marks carry traces of what happened before: moments of removing, adding, correcting. They hold memory. They reflect my inner states. Through layering, I arrive at a point where the painting begins to settle into balance. That’s where harmony appears.

Did you ever work figuratively, or were you always drawn to abstraction?

Interestingly, my sketches are often figurative. But when I move onto the canvas, everything transforms. My process changes the image completely. Recently, I’ve been drawing on the surface with long sticks, keeping that performative, physical approach alive. The sketch becomes a starting point, but the painting becomes something else.

When you look back at your earlier work, how do you see your development?

At the beginning I didn’t really understand what I was breaking away from. The paintings felt like backdrops. But over time I learned the stages of my process: which layer must come first, which comes next, how colours react, when to slow down, when to move faster. Sketching became a kind of meditation, and then painting became a sequence of decisions. Now I understand my own rhythm.

Who inspires you? Do you have role models?

My greatest inspiration is Yayoi Kusama. I admire how she doesn’t limit herself to one form. She creates entire environments; her work allows the viewer to step inside another universe. That’s the energy I’m drawn to. I don’t want people to only see an artwork — I want them to experience it.

What do you think is the biggest challenge for artists in Zimbabwe today?

Community. Without community, you get lost. Mbare Art Space gave me space to grow — not only physically, but mentally. Peer feedback, conversation, critique: these things are essential. You learn when to speed up, when to slow down, what to keep, what to change.

If you are not connected, you start to disappear from your own field. But when you are truly inside it, you grow.

What is your role as an artist? What is your purpose within your community and beyond?

I believe my role is to bring energy. Coming from my feminine side, I see myself as a flower — I have enough power to change the mood of a space. My sister calls me a social butterfly. Whether through my art or simply through presence, I try to pass on good energy, to lift people, to become a small light when someone is going through something difficult.

What makes your work specifically Zimbabwean?

My practice grows directly from my techniques and my background. I deeply believe in dyeing cloth, in giving new life to materials. As a Zimbabwean visual artist working primarily with tie-dye and batik techniques, my work reflects the rich cultural heritage, vibrant landscapes, and layered textures of Zimbabwe.

The interplay of colour and texture in my work is not only aesthetic — it tells a story. It becomes part of the ongoing narrative of Zimbabwean artistry within a global context. I am especially interested in the fusion of styles: the way traditional batik techniques can merge with contemporary artistic approaches. Through this dialogue between methods and ideas, my work captures the shifting, transitioning culture of Zimbabwe — constantly bridging the past and the present.

I feel that something from where I come from is always pushing me forward, quietly guiding my choices: my colours, my materials, my processes. Even when I think about the future of my practice, this connection remains central. When I choose textiles, I am drawn to fabrics that carry cultural memory — cotton, hand-woven materials — elements that ground my work in local traditions while allowing it to speak to the world.

How do you define success?

Success, for me, is meeting my own deadlines. I plan in three-month cycles. I write down goals, check them several times a week, and slowly move toward them — researching, editing, applying, preparing exhibitions. My mind is chaotic during the process, but when the exhibition opens, I allow myself to celebrate. Then I return to work. It’s a rhythm: work, celebrate, work again.

You collaborate frequently. How do you make collaboration work?

Collaboration begins with listening. With Nkosi (Frank Nkosiyabo), for example, it started from shared energy and music. We use different materials — he works with inks and oil, I work with fat paint, dye and textile — and that difference protects our individual voices. We learn from each other. The same happens when I collaborate with children. They ignore instructions, explore wildly, and show you something unexpected. I don’t believe in mistakes. Every so-called mistake opens a new door.

What are you working towards next?

I’m moving toward large-scale installations. I want to break free from only working in the studio. I want immersive spaces, characters, collaboration — especially with children. I want to experiment, research and push my practice further. My future is about expanding the world of my work.