Nothando Chiwanga: I am an archive myself — on body, memory, and the unseen histories of Black womanhood

Nothando Chiwanga’s images draw you in instantly. Rich in color, layered in detail, and emotionally charged, they create a visual world that feels both intimate and expansive. At the core of her practice is a continuous process of questioning. Through photography, performance, and costume, she explores womanhood not as a fixed identity, but as something lived, negotiated, and remembered. Her work moves between the personal and the collective, the visible and the overlooked. It also raises an urgent question: what can we still learn from those who came before us? Not as nostalgia, but as a way of rethinking the present. In her images, past and present coexist — not as opposites, but as intertwined layers of experience.

What kind of child were you, and how did your artistic language begin to form?

I grew up in a ghetto — loud, alive, and crowded — while I was a quiet child. That contrast shaped me deeply. I loved drawing, but also performing, even though I struggled with low self-esteem. There was always a duality in me: reserved, yet expressive.

In high school, drawing and sculpting were always connected to music, and that stayed with me. At home, I kept drawing, reading, observing — without realizing how central it had become.

I was fascinated by magazines and fashion imagery. I would cut out faces, collage them onto different bodies, and spend hours in front of the mirror, studying myself. I didn’t understand it then, but that was the beginning of my interest in identity and transformation.

My parents hoped I would become a nurse or a teacher, so choosing art wasn’t easy. But when they saw my commitment, they accepted it. In 2019, I entered the National Gallery of Zimbabwe’s School of Visual Arts — and that changed how I saw myself.

When you use your own body in your work, how is that different from modeling for someone else?

It’s not easy — it takes courage. I usually model for my own work, but collaborating with someone else takes courage. I want to honor their vision without losing or confusing my own. But in my own work, I move between roles: observer, subject, and medium.

I see myself as an archive. Everything I live, feel, and witness becomes part of the work. When I stand in front of the camera, I’m not just posing — I’m accessing memory and experience. This became clear during COVID, when I had no materials. The only material I had was myself. That’s when I understood that my body could be the medium.

Spending time in the mirror is part of my process. It’s a form of meditation. And I constantly observe people — because no one exists outside of a community. What I see, I translate into my work.

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

I’m never in a neutral state when I create. The work often starts from something personal — a feeling or memory — but it never stays only mine.

I see it as something spiritual. There is always a kind of ‘politics of the mind’ — conscious and unconscious thoughts moving together. I try to connect the past and the present. So when I present myself, it’s not just me as an individual. It’s a body carrying multiple stories.

Do you have any practice or routine that helps you prepare before creating?

Yes. I start with thoughts — I write, question, and sketch a lot. Then I choose one idea and research it deeply. I need to build a relationship with it. I also spend time in the mirror, and with people — talking, observing, moving through the city. That’s where the work comes from.

I was really struck by your series exhibited at Mbare Art Space in If These Walls Could Talk. In several photographs you embody specific characters. Could you talk more about that series — the story behind it and how you constructed those images?

That project was about both celebration and questioning. If These Walls Could Talk explored Zimbabwe’s beer culture and its colonial histories, and my series Queen of the Underground focuses on women whose labor has shaped these spaces, yet often remains unseen.

I call them ‘underground’ because their contributions are not publicly recognized, even though they are essential. The work is about making that visibility shift — highlighting their resilience and presence.

Embodiment was central to the process. I created the costumes myself, thinking carefully about materials, textures, hair, posture, and props. In one image, I kneel holding a calabash and a wooden stick — everyday objects that become symbols of agency. I combine traditional elements with unexpected ones, like heels or a wig, to reflect the tension between imposed identity and self-definition.

The project is multidisciplinary. I work with photography, installation, and performance together, so the work becomes more than documentation — it becomes a space where these stories can be felt, questioned, and reimagined.

Your handmade costumes are incredibly rich in color and detail. They feel connected to fashion as much as to photography or performance. How do you balance beauty and strong social commentary in your work?

For me, fashion is never just decoration — it’s a response.

I’m very aware of how the fashion industry constantly produces new trends and desires, only for them to be quickly discarded. That cycle interests me. When I create costumes, I often reuse clothes from my own wardrobe and transform them into something new. It’s a way of resisting waste, but also of giving memory another life. Clothes carry stories: when we throw them away, we also discard those narratives.

At the same time, I observe how women present themselves. There is beauty in it, but also pressure — to look a certain way, to belong, to reach a certain level. Not everyone has access to that.

So when I bring fashion into my work, I’m both celebrating and questioning. The costume becomes an archive — and through photography, it continues to live in another form.

Your work often reflects on womanhood and tradition. Do you see your practice more as preserving the past, or as questioning it — perhaps even as an eye-opener for the present?

Both. I cannot separate the past from the present. I carry the stories of my mother, my grandmother, my sisters — they live in me, and they move through my work.

For me, creating is both preserving and questioning. Some traditions may seem irrelevant today, but they once held meaning — they were ways of surviving and understanding the world. I’m interested in asking why they existed, and what we might lose if we forget them.

Many of the stories I work with are personal, shaped by what I’ve heard and continue to learn from the women around me. Culture and ancestry are central to my practice. When I look at myself, I don’t see only the present — I see different generations within me.

My work becomes a space where these timelines meet — where memory is carried forward, but also reimagined.

What is the biggest challenge for you as a woman artist in contemporary Zimbabwe?

The art industry is still largely male-dominated, even though many women are doing powerful and important work. I try not to limit myself to one space: I spend time with both male and female artists. Those conversations can be uncomfortable, but they open the mind.

At the same time, women often face different realities. Things like marriage or motherhood can shift how one is able to practice or be present in the art world. These are real challenges that affect many female artists.In the end, I try to remind myself that beyond gender, we are artists. What matters most is the work — and what you want to say through it.

How do you relate to feminism today?

Most of my work is rooted in womanhood — in celebrating women, but also in giving space to voices that are often unheard. I speak not only from my own experience, but from the experiences of the women I’ve grown up with, lived with, and shared life with. So for me, feminism is not abstract. It is lived. It is personal, and it is collective at the same time.

I was really moved by your series, where you balance books on your head. Could you talk about the meaning behind this work and the use of these objects?

This work came during COVID, when I didn’t have access to materials. At the same time, I was reading a lot and spending more time with myself. I started thinking: what if, instead of carrying a basket on my head, I carry books? What if knowledge, memory, and thought become something physical, something visible?

The books I used were actually my father’s. During that time, I was also going through grief after losing him. So the work became a way of connecting with him.

When I use objects, I always think about what they carry. Everyday things are often taken for granted. But they hold histories, emotions, and memories. I want the viewer to connect their own experiences to these objects — because everyone carries something.

When do you feel the most successful?

For me, success means bringing out the best in myself and continuing to put myself out there. But it’s not easy. You achieve one thing, and immediately you’re already thinking about what comes next.

Sometimes I have to pause. I ask myself many questions, but I also listen when my body tells me to rest. There’s still a long way to go.

I see it as a marathon — you keep running, even when you feel like giving up. And then you remember what you’ve already done, and that gives you strength to continue.

So for me, success is not a final moment. It’s a process — staying with it, even when it’s difficult, and trusting that something meaningful will come out of it.

Do you see your work as reclaiming the gaze?

I think in my recent work I’m responding to this question in my own way. Last year, I created a series where I placed myself in different poses — almost like multiple versions of myself, like sisters. Through this, I wanted to open up conversations around things that are often not considered acceptable to speak about.

As a woman, I’ve experienced many of these realities, so it’s important for me to bring them forward. My work can celebrate, question, or offer a response. Especially when we think about the female body — and the Black female body — there are still many histories and challenges that continue today.

At the same time, there are powerful stories about women that remain overlooked. I’m interested in making those visible. I don’t separate myself from these narratives — whether I’m at home or in the studio, I’m still the same person, just documenting different layers of experience.

I’m drawn to stories of women whose contributions have not been acknowledged — women who sustained communities through care, labor, and resilience. These are the voices I want to bring into focus.

So in that sense, I’m not only reclaiming the gaze — I’m expanding it, shifting it towards stories and experiences that have not been fully seen or valued.

How do you see your connection to your environment and community?

Everything starts with knowing yourself. You can’t truly express anything if you don’t understand who you are, if you’re not honest with yourself, and don’t dare to say what you really want to say.

When I look at people — women and men — I feel like I am always learning. Because you are never separate: you are born into a family, that family belongs to a community, and that community exists within something larger. My work comes from observing these connections — from listening, being present, and understanding that my story is always connected to others.

Your work often moves between spiritual or ritual elements and very grounded, everyday experiences. How do you balance these two?

For me, I don’t try to separate them — I let them flow. Actually I work in a caravan space, which comes from my research into migration and displacement, and it has become part of how I think and create. I’m also very open — people often share their stories, struggles, and emotions with me. Sometimes it can feel heavy, but I take it in and transform it into my work.

For me, the spiritual and the everyday are not separate. The body, emotions, and lived experience are all part of the same flow — I don’t divide them, I let them exist together.

You once described photography as a “love–hate relationship.” Why do you see it this way?

Because it preserves, but it also withholds. It gives you access to memory, but never the full story. That’s why I am drawn to archives — to what is visible and what is missing.

What are you actually working on?

Currently, I’m working on a research-based project centered on a woman who lived through the liberation struggle. She moved across different regions, and for a long time her story remained unknown. I spent months researching her life — speaking to people, visiting places, trying to understand her journey. Through this process, I began to embody aspects of her story, asking myself: what would it mean if this were my life? Her story was never fully recognized, even though she did so much. For me, this work is about giving space to these kinds of histories.