What draws me to Takunda Regis Billiat’s work is the dialogue between materials. Organic and synthetic elements meet not in opposition, but in negotiation. Each carries memory, labour, and energy.

In his practice, creation itself approaches ritual. Materials are never neutral; they carry the traces of community. There is an ethic of belonging in these compositions, something close to Ubuntu: I am because you are. In Billiat’s work, matter connects us — to each other, and to the world we inhabit.

How has your journey started?

I think it started with passion. When I was very young, I already felt that inner drive to create. But it wasn’t only personal — my parents and my teachers encouraged me. So in a way, my journey began not only from within, but also through the support of my community.

At that time, there were not many opportunities in my environment, not like today, where more spaces are opening. Back then, it was difficult to fully embrace myself as an artist. There wasn’t a clear path or visible structures to support that identity. The opportunities that did exist were mostly community-based events. I observed older creatives, I listened, I watched, I tried to understand.

When I later moved from Kwekwe to Harare, I had an opportunity to gain mentorship from practicing established artists and then joined the National Gallery School of Visual Arts, which became a turning point. But even now, I still feel in motion — still searching, still growing. It is an ongoing journey.

What was your relationship with materials as a kid?

Drawing was the foundation of my practice. I drew everything — cartoons, simple images, anything that captured my attention. Creativity wasn’t isolated from daily life. It was embedded in the community.

I also learned crafts — beadwork, weaving — and those early experiences still shape how I think about material today. My relationship with material evolved through observation, study, and an attempt to understand my environment. It became a way of understanding nature itself — and our relationship to it.

You mix organic and synthetic materials. How do you balance their different energies?

I try to contribute to an ethic of belonging — something that reconnects us to the natural world. Organic materials help me understand nature in its raw state.

But I don’t separate the artificial. Even synthetic materials originate from nature; they are simply transformed. So for me, the balance comes from recognizing continuity rather than opposition. I bring materials together to reflect the dialogue between traditional ways of life and contemporary realities.

Do you also reflect on climate or environmental concerns?

Yes. Working with discarded materials forces me to think about sustainability. When you walk through communities in Harare, you see dumping sites. You begin to ask: how can these materials be reused? How can they gain a second life?

People already collect materials for recycling, but there is still more to explore — how waste can become part of renewal. I feel it is our role — as artists, as makers — to participate in that conversation within our communities. It’s not about “saving the world” in a dramatic sense. It’s about awareness. About recognizing that what we reject still holds value. Through art, we can shift perception.

In your artist statement, you speak about communal identity.  How do you reflect the struggles or happiness of your community through materials alone?

I’m still learning. Sometimes I want the work to be collaborative — not only my energy, but a shared one.

In the beginning, I collected materials alone. Over time, others started participating. Some materials are valued for recycling, while others are rejected. For example, I use flip-flops in my work. The upper strap may be recyclable, but the rubber sole is often overlooked. Yet for me, that rubber holds color, texture, potential.

Through its rejection, I became interested in it. By transforming it, I allow it to speak about waste, but also about humanity. About how we assign value. Even if I don’t depict people directly, the community is embedded in the materials — in their previous lives and in the shared labor behind them.

And what about your personal identity? 

It happens through feeling. I don’t always approach the work intellectually. I begin with a sketch, but what emerges is often organic — something growing from within.

My personal and collective identities are not separate. My experiences are shaped by my community, and my community is filtered through my perspective. The work becomes a space where those energies meet.

Your process involves cleaning, sorting, and grading. Is that practical or ritual?

Both. I collect materials and study their properties — color, form, and weight. Sometimes materials sit in my studio for months before I use them. I wait until they “speak.”

Cleaning them myself helps me connect to their energy. It feels almost ritualistic — a transition from one life to another. The material has already served a function. Through cleaning and transforming it, I give it a new phase of existence.

But I also don’t see art as something that belongs only to me. Sometimes I invite people from the community to join the process. Through cleaning together, stories emerge. Conversations happen. And those conversations influence how I later compose the work.

What comes first — the idea or the material?

It depends. Sometimes material triggers the idea. Sometimes I begin with a concept and search for the right material. I also allow play. Play helps the work evolve. A sketch and material are different languages. The sketch guides me, but the material speaks in its own way. The process is about negotiating between them.

You trained as a painter. How did you move into sculpture and installation?

The foundation of my practice is drawing. When I went to art school, I learned different disciplines, but I approached them experimentally. As an artist, I don’t feel I need to separate these relationships. Sometimes a sculpture carries elements of painting. Sometimes drawing influences structure. For me, they are interconnected energies.

Learning these disciplines expanded my understanding of composition and construction. But I don’t separate myself from drawing or painting — those skills are still part of me. When ideas come, I can reflect more deeply because those foundations are present.

How do you approach experimentation?

I think experimentation is something you have to embrace. It’s part of the practice. When I experiment, I see it as an open space to learn new things. Through trial and error, I begin to recognize what works,  what feels meaningful. So experimentation is not just about risk — it’s about learning. It allows the work to evolve naturally.

Do you usually think in terms of series or individual works?

Often, yes. Working in series helps me understand material more deeply. Staying with a material opens new possibilities.

I also introduced play into my practice. Sometimes I work on several pieces at once; they borrow energy from each other. But when things become noisy, I focus on one. Listening to the work is essential.

I’ve seen works from your earlier period where you reflected on Christianity and religion as a structure. Could you tell me more about those works?

I grew up within Christianity, but at the same time, there was also an indigenous traditional way of life around me. So I found myself questioning: What is the real path? Those questions stayed with me. Through making the works, I began to see how relevant those questions were to what was happening in my community.

Different interpretations of spirituality begin to shape people’s lives in very different ways. I wasn’t trying to conclude what is right or wrong. Instead, I wanted to leave the question open. One thing I noticed was how belief can even create subtle divisions within families. That observation pushed me to think about balance. How do we find harmony in belief?

Do you think your work — or art in general — can create change within these kinds of belief systems? What do you see as the role of art today?

Change can happen, but it may not be immediate. When we talk about spirituality or religion today, it often becomes very individual. But traditionally, spirituality was also deeply communal. It connected people. I feel art can help bridge the gap of separation and division that sometimes arises between people. It can create a space where we reflect together. Art may not preach or dictate. But it can gently question. It can open dialogue.

What you’re describing sounds like moving beyond the ego toward something greater. It connects strongly to empathy — seeing others beyond yourself. How do you think about empathy in your practice?

Empathy happens when we understand that we are connected. There’s a saying in Ubuntu philosophy: I am because you are. That idea really resonates with me. It’s not about separation, but about oneness. So in my work, I’m trying to bridge that sense of division — to remind us that we are part of one bigger family. When we step beyond the ego, we begin to see that connection more clearly.

If we’re talking about the relationship between individual and collective, what does Mbare Art Space mean to you? 

I’ve learned a lot from Mbare Art Space. What makes it powerful is that it is truly embedded in the community. We have institutions in Zimbabwe, but many of them are not physically or emotionally situated within everyday community life. Mbare is different — it’s accessible. And because of that, people in the neighborhood are starting to understand art differently.

Before, some people thought art was only portrait drawing. But through exhibitions and open engagement, the community’s understanding is shifting. Mbare is still young and growing, but it’s already creating opportunities. I also appreciate how it connects internationally — inviting artists and students from other countries, creating exchanges.

And Mbare is not alone. Other artist-run spaces are emerging. These spaces are reshaping how art lives in the community. Art is no longer something distant; it’s something we live with.

You’ve also worked with galleries before. What do you see as the difference between artist-run spaces and galleries?

Both structures can contribute to an artist’s growth, but their approaches are different. Sometimes when art enters a gallery system, especially where marketing becomes central, there can be tension. The work risks becoming mainly commercial — something to sell — rather than something to explore deeply. I’m not saying all galleries function this way, but the structure can create hierarchy and distance. Artist-run spaces often allow more experimentation. They give artists room to stretch ideas, to find their voice without immediate pressure to produce something marketable.

Ideally, there should be a mutual relationship between artist and gallery — where both grow together. If a gallery supports an artist’s development, not only their market presence, that is very powerful. For me, the most important thing is to find environments where the work can grow authentically.

When do you feel successful as an artist?

My daily reality feels less like victory and more like failure and persistence. It’s about choosing again and again to give my ideas a voice and a form.For me, success begins in the studio. It’s in the dialogue between myself and the outside world — in that tension where something slowly takes shape. It’s the ongoing practice of showing up: to create, but also to surrender.Of course, visibility matters. But for me, success is the process of connection — hoping that something I make might touch, might communicate, might simply be.

What do you see as the biggest challenge of being an artist in Zimbabwe today?

Challenges exist on different levels. For emerging artists especially, space is still a major issue. Even though more spaces are opening now, they are not enough for all the artists who need platforms. If we could continue building spaces — community-based spaces, artist-run spaces — that would make a significant difference. Access is crucial.

Another challenge relates to the digitalized world we are living in. Access to Wi-Fi, technology, exposure — these things matter. Artists need platforms where their work can be seen in ways that truly support them.

Materiality itself is not necessarily the problem. Artists are very resourceful; they use what is available and create powerful work. But exposure, infrastructure, and digital accessibility remain ongoing challenges.

I’d like to return to the digital world. Your work is very material, very tactile. How do you see this tension between digital tools and material essence?

I think digitalization is something we must embrace — it is part of our time. But the challenge is to preserve the essence of art, which is human expression.

Sometimes digital systems allow for endless reproduction, but in that repetition, you may lose pulse, presence, and  that energy that comes from touch and transformation. Digital tools can be powerful, but they should not replace authenticity. They should extend our thinking, not flatten it. 

But we must ask: why do we make art? If art stops serving humanity — if it becomes only production — then we are losing something essential. For me, material carries life. That presence cannot be infinitely reproduced. And that is something we must protect.

How does a normal day look for you as an artist?

I’m a full-time artist, and sometimes I spend the entire day in the studio. But I’m also part of a community, and that environment is also part of my daily rhythm. Sometimes I feel a strong urge to create; other times I just want to absorb energy — to observe, to reflect. I try to embrace that flow. My day follows the rhythm of the work rather than a strict schedule.

Where does your inspiration come from? Do you have role models?

I research other artists and what is happening around the world. There are artists who inspire me — not to imitate them, but to tap their energy and carry it into my own language.  At the same time, I’m inspired by the artists around me here in Zimbabwe. We meet at exhibitions, we talk, we exchange ideas.

But nature is also my greatest teacher. I allow myself to be guided by its energy — by questions that arise in my mind, by moods, by what is happening around me.

Tell me about the series you are currently working on.

This new series is still growing. I’m trying to embrace rhythm more consciously. I’m also introducing movement into the work — something that wasn’t as present before. I’m still challenging myself to reach that fully. But I believe I’m moving toward it.