An Interview with Stary Mwaba

An Interview with Stary Mwaba

Thembeka Heidi Sincuba 

Zambian artist Stary Mwaba (b. 1976) is a self-taught multidisciplinary artist whose work interrogates history, identity, and postcolonial narratives. Notably, his 2015 Life on Mars exhibition examined Zambia’s 1960s space ambitions (Space Project) and the impact of Chinese economic expansion (Chinese Cabbage). Mwaba’s work in the ARAK Collection continues this inquiry, positioning African narratives within a global discourse. In this conversation, he reflects on his creative process, material engagement, and the broader significance of his work.

Thembeka Heidi Sincuba speaks with the artist for ARAK.

Can you share your earliest memory of deciding to pursue art?

It’s hard to pinpoint an exact moment because becoming an artist wasn’t something I planned. When I look back at my practice and ask, where did it start for me? Some things come back, like paintings that I loved as a young person. I saw imagery in taverns or the ones witchdoctors and healers used in their advertising.  This is, for me, where it kind of started. 

I’ve always been good with my hands, even as a child, but the decision came much later. I went through a lot of hardship, my mom was very sick, but she got this job in a primary school. It was during that time that I decided to become an artist. However, it wasn’t until I moved to the city and began engaging with other artists that I truly understood what it meant to have an artistic practice.

Maybe you can share a bit about the specific influences that inform your practice, For instance, what differentiates your work from your peers?

When I moved to the city, I started off as self-taught, so there are a lot of similarities. Coming to the city, there were certain things I tried to do, but my inroad or trajectory to becoming an artist was really different from a lot of people, so there are some differences, too. I do a lot of socially engaged projects, like really doing site-specific work. It all stems from where I come from and I’ve never really stopped doing that.  There was a time when I concentrated so much on my studio space. I  referred to the work that I did outside my space as a way of  trying to contribute to society, sometimes doing it for fun and hanging out. 

 Do you feel like you have to find a balance between social, and cultural interests and your own personal narratives?

For the longest time, I tried to. At the moment, I’m beginning to feel like I’m just doing what I have to do. At times I would spend months at a time doing cultural work and not going back to the studio. But these days it’s balancing out. I just do what I can and according to what feels right at that point.

 When you do decide to go into the studio, what is the studio process like?

My studio practice is informed by the stuff that I'm doing out there and coming back.  It's all connected and depends on how well I did on the ground. I come back to the studio with a lot of ideas and a different energy. 

When you say that your studio process is determined by what happens out there—what is that? Can you be more specific about what happens “out there”? 

 Look, there's a point when I used to have these particular themes, but now I’m realising that everything is part of it.  Sometimes I would not find anything that is super interesting academically, but it's just being on the ground and meeting people. For instance, I could meet a kid selling water and have a conversation with him and maybe this conversation would inform what happens in the studio for the next couple of days or months. 

How does the location of your studio inform the work?

 I have two different studio spaces. I live in Lusaka and I have a studio there. I also have a studio in the Copperbelt Province in Kitwe. These two spaces are so different.  The Copperbelt is super personal in the sense that I grew up there, with my grandparents, my mother, and my father. So, it’s going back to this space where people know me as a certain kind of artist and also question why I'm coming back.

Can you elaborate on your choice of materials and how they inform your narratives?

I come from a painting background. I defined myself as a painter at some point. At this point, I’ve grown tired of certain materials that I’ve been using. Sometimes it's more like, “I’m using too much acrylic, maybe I should use oils.” Sometimes I’m trying to teach myself and get better at a certain medium while also trying to express maybe an interaction I’ve had. 

I often incorporate other materials when I feel they better articulate a particular story or theme. Each material has its own language, and sometimes it’s about finding the one that resonates most with the experience I’m trying to convey. For example, in Chinese Cabbage, I used the physical transformation of cabbage leaves to reflect the impact of Chinese economic influence on Zambia. It’s about aligning the material with the message.

What role, if any, does collaboration play in your artistic process?

For me to express myself artistically, I went to the creatives on the ground. I  work with people who have been doing copper embossing—a process where  they used to buy these copper sheets and then they would make art out of it.  I work with a guy called David. Over the past 50 years, he has been turning his house, which is based in the compounds (in South Africa you would call it a township) into a museum. He has lived there his whole life. He’s a small artisan miner; he makes stuff with cement. Another guy Nalipapa—this crazy guy who was obsessed with collecting imagery from barbershops and healers—was gathering all of this in a compound with no access to a gallery setting. Nalipapa has this massive archive of old newspapers and he would read a story and put it on a paper and continue with the story—like he would write his own story. And then there's Norton, an old photographer. 

So, I start with these four and obviously, it’s a struggle at first. But I acknowledge my limits—how far I can go. David does things in maintenance that I can’t, in many ways. But I also think there are certain things that he interprets in a way. Maybe I can’t express them in my paintings, but I want to be part of the amazing work he’s doing. It’s very collective. Our societies function that way—it’s not a one-man show. We are a collective society. That’s why collaborations are important to me.

What challenges or opportunities do you perceive for artists working in your region today?

I question why some really creative people are not part of so-called contemporary art practice.  For example, there are a number of people like that who wouldn’t typically be described as contemporary artists. It’s so important for me to go back and work with these kinds of people.

But you are regarded as an artist. So, how do you see your work contributing to broader narratives within African art?

When I say they're not regarded as artists, I think it's this superficial way of defining who artists are  because it's totally wrong. These four walled galleries don't know about African art practice, or Zambian [artistic practice] in particular.  It's different from South Africa in many ways because it’s very generational. Coming back from South Africa and other places, I realised that this is what’s important because it actually tells my story. I'm not struggling to even explain what this kind of art means to the ordinary guy on the street.  He sees and understands.

What  responses do you get from audiences based on where you are and have these responses shaped the way you think about your work?

When I went to Germany, one of the works that was very popular, and for some reason, I was super excited about, was a piece called Chinese Cabbage.  I thought because it's very simple and I started it with my daughter and it says a lot about our situation then. But when I went to Europe, what they were reading into it—I don’t entirely dismiss it—I felt that the narrative was not really about where I stand. It became more about  me criticising China and calling it the new colonial power. At first, I was excited because I thought this work would take me further in my practice, but eventually, I got really uncomfortable because it wasn’t communicating what I wanted.

Coming back home—and this is how I got back to the Copperbelt—I wanted to say so much about what the Chinese were doing.  But on the ground, I go back to the place where I was born. This is home.  As much as this is an issue, more things were important to us than these narratives that are being pushed by Western media. This is a continuation of writing our history.  This space, Black Mountain, that I went back to was so multi-layered. Speaking about my grandfather—my mother's father who worked in the mine—they were part of the genocide. These are things I should be talking about. Besides, if you’re talking about economic colonisation, it’s not starting with the Chinese.  It goes way, way, way back. So, you look at those things and you say, ‘Wait a minute—I am pushing a wrong narrative.’ 

 How do you approach the idea of legacy or the long-term impact of your work?

I'm really interested in the now—in what's happening at this moment. When I went back, I was overwhelmed by the historical happenings—what my grandfather was involved in and things like that. But when I started working around the Black Mountain and the Copperbelt, I focused on my cousin, because I left and my cousin remained. A lot of history—some of it, I was part of. We talk about it—"Do you remember this mountain? Do you remember how we used to pass here?” But obviously, I'm very much aware of the historical context of mineral extraction and what’s happening now with the whole green environment movement. I'm reading about it, and I’m aware of that aspect. 

But I focus on my cousin because, in this small way—though I hesitate to call it small—his engagement with the space and our interaction is part of the bigger picture, the broader African or Zambian narrative.  I'm also not an expert on mining histories. But these people, I know, my parents, my grandparents included, have a history with this space, their grandparents have a history with it too. So, when you speak of the future, I don’t know when I will be relevant to it. But I'm very keen on contributing to whatever comes by living in the now—paying attention to the small details.

How do you feel about your work being included in the ARAK Collection?

I don't know much about many collections, but with ARAK, I've met AbdulRahman [Al Khelaifi]. I have very little knowledge, but I think I learned a few things when Barnabas [Ticha Muvhuti] was doing his research. He introduced me to the man. I've had this kind of interaction with him and I think when I look at the collection, I’m viewing it through my interactions with him and how passionate he is about African art. Not because I’m blowing his trumpet but it really is this interaction of genuineness in the respect that he has for you as an artist.

He comes into the space, he’s very straightforward, and he says, ‘Hey, this I like. This I don’t. I don't understand this.’ Then I would talk about why I’m making what I’m making. And  if you spend time with someone who's willing to go through that process of listening to  what your work stands for—I took him around and he really takes time to find these young artists—then you tend to have respect for that collector or that collection.

This interview has been edited for brevity and clarity.

Only the artwork UNTITLED is in the ARAK Collection. 

Cover artwork: Stary Mwaba, Untitled, 2021. Oil on canvas, 200 x 120 cm

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