Raised by his grandmother, William Joseph Kachinjika’s artistic practice grows from close observation, manual labour, and lived experience. Working with textiles, rope, and found materials, the Zimbabwean artist translates everyday realities—power cuts, labour, community life—into abstract yet deeply grounded forms. In this interview, he reflects on material as language, the role of community at Mbare Art Space, and the responsibility of making art that remains true to its origins while speaking globally.

How did your journey as an artist begin?I like to say my story starts with my grandmother. I grew up with her – she’s the one who raised me and took care of me. As a child I was already drawing, copying cartoons like Tom and Jerry and doing little competitions at school, but I didn’t yet know that it could be a real path.The turning point came slowly. At high school I faced the big question: Do you want to do art, or do you want to find a “proper job”? Parents don’t always understand what art is, what it can do. But inside myself I felt there was something I had to follow.Later, in 2019, I went to the School of Visual Art and Design at the National Gallery of Zimbabwe. That’s where I started to take it seriously – not just as a talent, but as a life. Today I am a full-time artist. I can decide what to do with my life, and art is the centre of that.

You mentioned your grandmother as a key figure. How did she influence your practice?

I’ve always been very observant. I like to watch how things are done. My grandmother crocheted and knitted every day — tablecloths known as dhoiri in Shona. Everything was handmade. She sold them within the community to earn money for food and basic needs.

I watched her daily routine: waking up, sitting down, and patiently building something from nothing with her hands. That stayed with me. It wasn’t just craft — it was survival, care, resilience, and pride.

Today, when I weave or stitch, there’s a direct line back to her. The materials have changed — rope, cables, mutton cloth — but the logic is the same: repetition, repair, creation. The idea that your hands can change your situation comes directly from her.

You originally trained as a painter. How did you move toward textile and found materials?At art school we worked across disciplines — drawing, painting, sculpture. But access to materials was a constant challenge. Paint, brushes, and canvases were expensive, and often unavailable.

So I began cutting up my own clothes and patching them together for assignments. That’s when I realised I could work with what was already around me. I decided to learn weaving and sewing properly, and I started using mutton cloth, rope, and later electrical cables. I also began sourcing materials from dumpsites and eco-material spaces.

At some point I understood: this wasn’t just a solution to a problem — it was my language.

Your works are abstract, yet deeply connected to memory, identity, and community. How do you translate these stories into abstract forms?Everything begins with observing my environment — everyday life in my community and my country. I ask simple but heavy questions: Do we have electricity today? Is there transport? What kind of labour are people doing? What are we lacking, and what are we surviving?

From there, I sketch — often many small drawings — and decide on a limited colour palette. I rarely use many colours; usually one or two, explored through different shades.

Each colour carries meaning. In my current Gold and Sun series, yellow can represent minerals, wealth, or hope. It can also speak about power — electricity and political power. Even though the works are abstract, the colours and forms are tied to very real conditions.

I don’t want to bring in things that are far from me just because they look good. My voice comes from what I know.

Your works often resemble labyrinths — complex and layered, yet harmonious from a distance. How do you think about chaos and order?Life in my context is exactly that — chaotic, but always searching for harmony.

The shapes often come from tablecloth patterns, street layouts, parts of a community, roads, even railway lines. When you follow one thread closely, it can feel confusing. But when you step back, a structure appears.

The holes are especially important. For me, they represent a woman — specifically my grandmother. Sometimes I place light inside them, sometimes I leave them dark. They can speak about loss and absence, but also about hope when illuminated.

You work with both recycled and new materials. How do you balance them?Often, the materials choose me. I don’t begin with a long conceptual list. I look at what is available and what resonates with the story.

Electrical cables are a good example. New ones are expensive, so I often find them at dumpsites or auctions. What others see as waste becomes, in my work, a line of energy, connection, or struggle.

Mixing recycled and new materials reflects my reality: old systems, new pressures, past and future woven together.

Can you walk us through your creative process from the first idea to a finished piece?

The first stage is observation and questioning. I write down questions, thoughts, and notes. Then I sketch — on paper and sometimes directly on the floor, using chalk to mark out the basic shape and rhythm of the piece. After that I decide which materials to use. I choose the colour palette last, based on what needs to be expressed.

When I start weaving or stitching, it becomes very physical and meditative. A large work can take weeks or even a month. I often work in series, so I might be developing several pieces on the same theme at different scales.

About finishing: I don’t tell the work, “Now you are done.” The work tells me. It’s like writing a story — at some point the piece says, you can stop now, you can move on. I never see it as perfect; I see it as ready to speak.

You’re part of Mbare Art Space, which has become an important hub in Harare. What does this community mean to you?

Mbare Art Space is very important in my life and my practice. It’s not just a studio; it’s a community. We are many artists working side by side, sharing space, experiences, and opportunities.

Earlier this year, for example, we did a group show with three artists. That exhibition pushed us to another level because of the dialogue between our works and the exposure it created. When you are surrounded by people who are serious about their practice, you grow faster.

The community is also emotional support. Being an artist is hard everywhere, but especially in a context with limited resources. When someone is struggling, others can step in, share advice, contacts, or simply encouragement. It helps us not to feel alone.

From your perspective, what are the biggest challenges for young artists in Zimbabwe today? And what excites you about the scene?

One big challenge is access to materials and space. Many young artists want to work, but they don’t have studios or can’t afford the tools they need. Another challenge is visibility: there are not enough galleries or platforms for people to show their work, both locally and internationally.

Even with social media, it’s still difficult. You can have an Instagram account, but reaching the right audiences — curators or collectors — is another story.

What excites me is that, despite all this, there is a lot of energy. Spaces like Mbare Art Space and other community-based initiatives are creating new possibilities. You see artists experimenting with materials, talking about real issues, supporting each other. There’s a strong sense of building something from the ground up.

Do you feel that international audiences expect Zimbabwean — or African — artists to work in a certain “African” way? How do you navigate that?There can be expectations, yes. Sometimes people want a certain image of Africa — a certain style or story — and they look for that in the work. Textile and weaving are often linked to African tradition, so there is a risk of being read only through that lens.

I try to remember that I am not only representing myself; I’m also carrying stories from my community. So I’m careful. I want to be honest about where my work comes from — from my grandmother, from Mbare, from Zimbabwe’s realities — without performing an identity just to fit a market.

I start from my own life and my local people. If the work is true to that, then it can speak to the world in its own way.

How do you see your role and responsibility toward your community as an artist? And what are you working on now?

 I do feel a responsibility. Through my work I can bring visibility to stories and realities that are often ignored. I can show how people live, the challenges they face, but also their strength and creativity. In that sense, art can be a form of healing or reflection.

Right now I’m working on a series called Gold and Sun. It continues some of the ideas from my earlier Third Eye works — searching for ways out of darkness, searching for life — but this time through the metaphor of light. You can’t see gold in the dark; you need light. The yellow shades I use speak about minerals, value, and hope.

I currently have works in a group show in Cape Town, with more exhibitions coming up, including in France. Looking ahead, I see myself growing into larger projects, residencies, and collaborations — but always with the same root: observing, weaving, and trying to bring light into the dark.