Jonathan Lowen
The Brenthurst collection of Southern African Art is so called to reflect its current ownership and location. Its formation was the work of an individual collector, Jonathan Lowen, who was born in South Africa but lives in London. His quest for artefacts made by people now regarded as indigenous communities across Southern Africa led him to assemble a representative sample of such items that, taken together, evidence a distinct aesthetic cohesion. We asked Jonathan to explain the passion – and the purpose – of this collection:
JL: These objects show that highly skilled craftsmen and women engaged with concepts of beauty that are truly universal. They appeal to people of all cultures who recognise art in even the humblest articles of adornment, weapons of war or domestic utility. The thread running through these artefacts is the desire for connection to beliefs and respect for ancestry, but with an eye for identity and fashion.
This collection is presented in the hope that it infuses respect for those people, now anonymous, who individually crafted each object to the best of their ability and with evident pride. The more we recognise and acknowledge the ingenuity, and sometimes genius, apparent in these artefacts, the greater is our understanding of people who lived in circumstances very different to those who have only known our current material culture.
As a student of Art History at Witwatersrand University in the early 1960s, the syllabus was almost entirely Eurocentric. There was scant regard to Eastern traditional art, let alone the traditional arts of the African continent. If reference to such items was made at all, it was as a footnote to the genius of such Europeans as Picasso, Brancusi, Moore and the reams of other pioneering artists who had drawn inspiration from African masks and figures that had been brought to the European continent in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
My own awareness of the intriguing character of tribal art stemmed from the presence in our house of a massive knobkerrie that my father had acquired (JL-R-2). It was hung on a wall beside other valued artworks, so had the status of something special. The beauty of this piece was the form carved from the two-tone hardwood in such a manner as to express an inner strength and gravity. The massive head was slightly onion shaped above a shank entwined with brass and iron wire, intricately woven into decorative spirals. Despite my ignorance at that time, I nevertheless regarded this artefact with wonder. Its presence commanded respect and exuded power. I now believe it to be an executioner’s implement, bringing death to those whose fate had been decided. It was made to crush skulls. The shiny wire spirals were symbols of connection to ancestors. What would a small boy not like about all that!
As an impressionable only child, I was fascinated by the imposing presence of an elderly Zulu man whom my parents employed as a nightwatchman. He was an induna, a wise man who was consulted by tribesmen within the neighbourhood and would sit, knobkerrie in hand, beside his nightly fire as he interceded in disputes or gave good counsel to younger men.
In the afternoons, I would sit with him as he made his own brand of snuff, grinding dry aloes and tobacco, and sifting the powder for his regular use. His coughing and spitting punctuated his explanations to me in his characterful brand of English. He was a great raconteur, and I a fascinated listener. In that way, I learned of the importance of respect, of hierarchy, of cattle and rituals. He had awakened a sense of curiosity in me that probably accounts for my focus as an adult on tribal cultures.
A by-product of my father’s work as a barrister was the gifts he would bring me after spells away, such as wonderous animal carvings made by Barotse tribesmen, each decorated with pokerwork. I later inherited his even more precious items: a wonderful small animal hide sampler comprising several distinct species that Seretse Kama had offered him, and a Luba pot carrier female by the renowned carver Kiloko. To these treasures I added stone grinding bowls and implements that I collected and proudly displayed in my home museum.
I was always a collector of everything. One treasure implied the existence of others, and so the impulse grew. Each artefact I’ve acquired ever since has inflamed my interest and my desire to see more such fascinating things.
Many years later, as a law student studying for the Bar in the UK and rummaging in antique markets, I found a staff with a simple male figure standing demurely at the top (JL-C-18). It was so tactile, its smooth flowing form of such abstracted simplicity and yet such poetic potency, that I had to have it. I didn’t then know where it had originated or whether it represented a cultural style. I was steered to the British Museum and given access there to archived material. My research amazed me.
My figurative staff bore striking resemblance to others on permanent display there. It had been made in Natal in the early 20th century. Its distortions expressed potency by the distended stomach, clasped by the arms and hands to express pride, and his rank by the crowning ring of a Zulu elder. The rare wood, patina and length of the staff suggested that it had been used in the context of ceremonial practices. This was a piece conceived with such tenderness, showing the genius of expression through abstraction that seemed to be on the opposite end of a spectrum of creativity from that brutal knobkerrie. Yet the two pieces were carved by people of the same cultural group. This evidenced to me a wonderous understanding of form and function. The beauty at the essence of these objects set me off on a quest for more. I researched more widely and began to develop a strong sense of the aesthetic parameters that defined individual items as having common regional origins.
Throughout the late 1960s and 70s, I found a wealth of material that seemed to be emerging in the antique trade from attics and shelves of that generation of colonial visitors to Southern Africa who had then passed away. Pots, beadwork, snuff containers, spoons, hairpins, pipes – these are all part of the rich material culture. Yet artefacts that had been acquired as curiosities some generations ago had little value or appreciation amongst the inheritors who disposed of them quite readily.
Moreover, at that time, even serious collectors of African Art paid scant attention to artefacts from that region. Indeed, the usually available books on the subject of traditional arts of Africa confined the contents to people who lived north of the Zambezi river. Some even boldly proclaimed that there was no significant tribal art to be found further south.
There was little competition for the objects I was pursuing.
I collected wherever, and whenever, possible. I became known in the antique trade as an obsessive collector. Soon I got to know, and established friendships with, some of the most notable dealers, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for their guidance and help in widening my knowledge and understanding of the material culture of Southern Africa and, of course, selling me the wonderful range of material in the Brenthurst Collection.
As I assembled more and more objects, it became obvious that creativity was as endemic to the pastoralists and herds people of Southern Africa as it had been to the communities in West and Central Africa. More nomadic lifestyles necessarily focused creativity into portable items, mostly for personal use. That is evident from the range of artefacts which survived, were collected by colonial Europeans, and which now comprise this collection.
I have always believed that the most important audience for displays of these historic relics is the people whose own ancestors made and used them. Their cultural history is illustrated by these pieces and their entitlement to that cultural respect is undisputed.
At the same time such collections serve to promote understanding by others of that valuable cultural history. Collections make all the more sense when they are viewed as a storyline that illustrates the deeper narrative of history. Each object stands alone as a work of art, but also adds value to the broad picture of cultural identity. Together, the pieces in the collection are like hieroglyphs. Each is particular but there is a fabric of a narrative that is also evident. That is why I was determined to find a home for this collection in South Africa. These items were removed long ago and had to come home.
This collection is not only about history and material culture but is also about imagination. People’s lives were influenced by the elements and the natural world as they experienced it. Societies adopted rituals and norms that reinforced their ability to function as family, clan and community. Their artefacts reflected symbols aligned with all of this but, additionally, there was the realm of heritage. The spirits of ancestors, of demons and protectors and the beliefs of origin and afterlife were ever present and found representation in appropriate objects.
Staffs were fashioned for diviners in such a form as would enable or enhance rituals. Spirals of snakes around the shafts would call to mind the function of the creature as messengers between the living and the ancestors. Wooden representations of iron-bladed weapons were carved for use in ceremonies and dances so that risk of injury could be averted without loss of prestige. Staffs of status reflected the owner’s position in the hierarchy. There is always a blending of form and function and sometimes carvers gave vent to their own commentary about society or values or representations of a folktale or legend. Staffs provide a fertile representation of the fabric of life.
Nightfall under African skies is a time for dreaming. Pillows are no boring bags of soft stuffing. Sleeping on a ground mat requires a comfortable means of supporting the head, so traditional wooden headrests are designed to perform that function.
But carvers of these utilitarian objects also worked to embody the identity of the user by conformity with cultural styles, in addition to enhancing the flights of fancy through dreaming. Symbolism in the forms of headrests are cyphers of communication with the spirit world. They reflect aspirations of wealth, wives and power.
Great art finds expression within limitations. The functional parameters of a headrest dictate the boundaries, yet the carver finds a way to express his creative ingenuity. Headrests evidence a vast array of individuality. The Brenthurst examples form a small part of my lifelong accumulation of headrests but represent the extraordinary creativity and craftmanship that has emerged from the confines of functional forms.
I have continued to collect ever since the Brenthurst collection left my ownership. Over time, and with greater experience, I have come to recognise commonalities between artefacts that had been separated from their places of origin but that chime with other items fashioned in similar styles and methods. I sometimes recognise the work of individual carvers, whose personal works tell of the community where they were made.
Museum collections around the world include items that are stylistically or even more directly comparable with individual artefacts. Such resources can provide reference information where it is available and so expand our knowledge and understanding of the cultures that yielded such intriguing artefacts and art. Academic research continues to supplement collections, but that expertise is beyond my scope.
The future is bright. Public exhibitions provoke increasing interest, and scientific methods of conservation enhance and ensure the endurance of such collections.
Certainly, long gone are the days when the material culture of Southern Africa could be ignored or under-appreciated.
Jonathan Lowen
2nd August 2024