Collection as Embodiment of Ubuntu
Interview with art collectors Harry David & Lana de Beer David
Standing on the hillside above Athens, the home of Harry and Lana David embodies a unique symbiosis of contemporary architecture, nature, and art. The house is guarded by three ancient olive trees—two around 350 years old and one approximately 800 years old. The oldest was craned into the courtyard and now shades the table where the couple take their breakfast. The two younger ones greet visitors at the entrance, their centuries of survival making them living witnesses of resilience. All three were rescued from destruction by a man who travels across Greece, lifting endangered olive trees from construction sites and relocating them to what might be called a tree orphanage.
The garden is fragrant with rosemary. Four dogs run up to greet visitors—three of them adopted from shelters. The architecture of the house is distinctly contemporary, yet steeped in tradition, like a bridge connecting culture and memory in its broadest and most universal sense.
The Harry David Art Collection, focused on Africa and its diaspora, carries the same sense of beauty, resilience, and continuity as the trees outside. It has grown out of biography, intuition, and a deep sense of responsibility. Harry David spent his early years in Nigeria and now lives between Nicosia (Cyprus), Lagos, and Athens. Lana de Beer David was born and raised in South Africa and today divides her life between Athens and Nicosia. Together they describe themselves as “children of Africa,” carrying its contradictions and histories with them.
Harry began collecting more than 25 years ago, but it was only around 2010 that his focus sharpened on Africa and its diaspora—including African American artists. The collection listens closely to cultural, political, and historical voices that reflect a vibrantly changing continent. Its works form a chorus of postcolonial conversations: on slavery and its afterlives, on immigration and displacement, on war and ecology, on gender, craft, portraiture, and power.
The holdings span over 500 works. Part of the collection is rehung with deliberation each year, in a rhythm that mirrors both instinct and reflection. From Kara Walker’s silhouettes to Michael Armitage’s bark-cloth paintings, from Ibrahim Mahama’s jute sacks to Rashid Johnson’s installations, the collection brings together practices that speak to colonial histories, resilience, and joy—even in difficult circumstances. As Lana puts it, “In a way, I’ve become the storyteller of the collection.”
At the moment of visiting, one floor of the house is almost entirely dedicated to textiles. Two monumental works by Abdoulaye Konaté from Mali set the tone, introducing themes that run through much of the collection: the richness of African materials and the relentless extraction of the continent’s wealth. In one work, cocoa or coffee beans are shown being loaded into shipping containers, bound for Europe—harvested in blistering heat for fifty cents a day, only to be transformed into luxury goods abroad. In another, Konaté responds to the jihadist invasion of Timbuktu in 2014: weapons, both traditional and modern, lined up against a skyline punctuated by churches and mosques. Flags of foreign nations signal complicity. And stitched quietly into the fabric are small amulets, recalling the heartbreaking belief that mothers could protect their children from bullets by sewing charms into their children’s clothing.
Nearby is a work by Otobong Nkanga. A smaller sibling of her monumental piece at MoMA, it continues the same exploration of our fragile environment. Orbs in various phases shrink as if consumed by fire or ice—a stark meditation on ecological collapse. The work is installed slightly away from the wall, so its back—equally striking—becomes part of the experience.
Harry and Lana are active patrons of Tate’s African Acquisitions Committee and the Studio Museum in Harlem, New York. When the National Museum of Contemporary Art (EMST) in Athens reopened in 2020, it did so with an exhibition drawn from their collection under the title Ubuntu. The philosophy—“I am because we are”—resonates not only with the artworks, but also with the way Harry and Lana describe their role as collectors: stepping forward when needed, but also stepping back to let the art speak for itself.
In the following conversation, we talk about origins and responsibilities, the dangers of hype, the spirit of Ubuntu, and why, for them, Africa is where they go to “refill their souls.”
Otobong Nkanga, Sunburst, 2024
I wanted to ask you about your beginnings with art and collecting.
Lana: Our focus is Africa and the diaspora. By diaspora, we mean primarily African American artists, as well as artists from the continent who, for various reasons, have found themselves in Europe or the UK.
As for our backgrounds: I’m South African, born and raised, probably seventh or ninth generation of Dutch descent. Harry is from Cyprus, raised in Nigeria, third generation there.
Harry began collecting long before me. He’s been a collector for as long as he can remember—buying works even as a student, with whatever little money he had. For a short while he lost his passion for collecting. When he returned to it, he asked himself: Why did I pause? Looking back at his collection, he realized that the works which still spoke most strongly to him were those from Africa—reminders of his childhood.
I happened to come into the picture at the same time, and there was this lovely, organic alignment of timing. I have no formal background in art—I studied literature. In a same way I apply analytical thinking to writings, I found myself being able to respond to the art works.
In terms of practice, we work with an advisor, we travel widely, we debate and reflect. Collecting is a very alive process for us.
But what was your motive, why art? If I understand correctly, Harry, your family also had a collection.
Harry: These are good questions. I’m not sure I really have the answers. My parents are not collectors, per se. They like art. Here in Athens, they have a beautiful collection of Greek artists from the early to mid-20th century. But they’re not collectors in the sense of being obsessive about it. They simply enjoy art and nice things. Over time, they bought works by older Greek artists—good ones—but more out of appreciation than a passion for collecting.
Growing up, they would always take us to museums. Whenever we visited Paris or London, there was always a museum or two on the agenda. But I think most parents do that—it’s not unique. Can I explain why I developed this passion? Not really. My sister and brother don’t share it. It’s not genetic. Somehow, it just happened.
For many years, I collected in a fairly generic way. I was involved, but not with much depth—more on the shallow side. And then I started to feel something wasn’t right, that something was missing. Around the same time, I met Lana, and the “bug” came back. I realized I couldn’t stay out of the art world—it’s part of me. I found my way back by focusing on Africa and the diaspora.
I think our relationship inspired me to do something more. Maybe because we had both been married before, it became a kind of trigger to create something together. I don’t know if there’s a deeper explanation, but it felt right. It felt strong, like there was a story and a sense of purpose behind it. Of course, we can always do more—supporting artists or curators, helping them create new things. That’s the next step: evolving what we do so we can contribute more to the ecosystem and it feels meaningful.
Would you say that, in a way, your collection also serves as a form of documentation—given that there is still so little written record or institutional recognition of African art?
Lana: I think that ever since we first met, everything has happened very naturally, with lots of coincidences—very organically. There hasn’t been much deliberate planning to the journey. In fact, I’d almost say the journey is leading us. Of course, when it comes to what we acquire, there’s a lot of thought, but the path itself has been effortless, and we’ve learned to trust it.
We often talk about what we want to do next. We haven’t quite found exactly how we want to give back to the ecosystem, but we’re not worried. We believe it will happen as organically as everything else has so far. We know we want to help. So we keep having these sit-downs with our advisor every few months. We talk, we reflect, we step away, and then we return to the conversation. Something will happen—when the time is right.
Lynette Yiadom Boakye, untitled, 2004
Harry: There are some artists we follow in depth—Wangechi Mutu, Chris Offili, Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Rashid Johnson, Michael Armitage and Pamela Phatsimo Sunstrum. We’ve even donated some of Armitage’s works to Tate and the National Galleries of Scotland. Then there are others who enter the collection because they add to the larger story. One of those is Kara Walker. She comes from an older generation of contemporary African diaspora artists, and her work references history in a way that complements the rest of the collection.
Kara Walker, Untitled, 1996
Lana: I would especially like to mention Kara Walker’s Untitled (1996). It’s one of only four or five works in our collection that predate the year 2000—we otherwise consider ourselves a contemporary collection.
It’s a silhouette piece that, at first glance, might recall Northern European fairy tales such as Hansel and Gretel. But of course, those tales were always told in a sanitized way. Walker’s work confronts something far more brutal: the legacy of slavery.
I once read an article about a journalist who visited Kara’s studio while she was working on it. The journalist was shocked and asked, “What is this?” Kara apparently replied, “It’s a child feeding beating a horse. What do you think it is?” That ambiguity is powerful.
On the left side of the work, there’s a riverboat—a reference to the wealthy white planters from tobacco and cotton farms. They lived in luxury, gambling and visiting prostitutes, while all of it rested on the brutality of slavery.
Pamela Phatsimo Sunstrum, Rider, 2020
There was this wave of passion—a trend around African art—but, I suppose, it didn’t really help people understand the real essence of African art. It felt more like a market movement without deeper understanding. What you’re doing with your collection seems to break through that, to reveal the spirit behind the art.
Lana: This has happened before, historically. Whenever there’s hype—look at the Young British Artists, for example—suddenly there’s a frenzy, and it’s insane. Personally, I don’t think there’s only one path for African art, but it does need to find some stability. Institutions need to include it so it doesn’t disappear again.
Even in the era of Trumpism, people still have to open themselves to the world and to new ideas. Trump can’t reverse the fact that the world is becoming smaller and more connected. I’m not afraid of that. But hype is always a shock—for artists especially. Suddenly you have young artists who were earning nothing, and then they’re promised the moon. That can be destabilizing. Hopefully it will settle, but there is a place for it.
Harry: I think there’s still a little bit of hype left, but it will settle down eventually. We’ve chosen to avoid following some of these trends—rightly or wrongly.
Lana: There are also many collectors of African art who have never even been to Africa. I once met a man at a dinner—very nice, French, but he knew nothing about art. An art dealer had convinced him he could go up and down African rivers, buy works from small studios for €50, and sell them in Europe for €5,000. He said, “Isn’t that great? I’m helping the artists!” And I told him, “No, I think it’s a terrible idea. You’ll give somebody €50—what about the artist’s career and the gallery?”
The ecosystem isn’t perfect, but it exists for a reason: to protect artists. Look at what happens. Many careers are ruined because an artist sells a work for €5,000, and then suddenly the next show is at €100,000. And then they disappear. Their works show up at every auction, and the artists themselves is nowhere to be found.
Michael Armitage, Exorcism, 2017
Speaking about Africa as a continent—do you feel there’s still much to discover art-wise, or is it mostly just a fraction that has already been uncovered?
Lana: For me, Cape Town is really the hub. Johannesburg has a scene too, but a lot of those galleries are already present in Cape Town. It’s nice to stop through Johannesburg, but not as essential. After that, you’re looking at Lagos, Accra, Senegal—Dakar, where Kehinde Wiley had his space. And Marrakesh.
Nairobi is interesting—I traveled with Gasworks and we hosted by Michael Armitage. Apart from Michael and a few residencies, there are some good artists, but the scene coming out of Kenya is still very, very young. The same with Uganda—also vibrant but young. There’s 32° East. Do you know that space? It’s incredible. It’s supported by the Gasworks Foundation and others, and they’re building residencies there. When I visited, it was still under construction, but I follow them on social media.
It’s a small but beautiful setup: literally a bed and a desk in each room, with a skylight above, plus communal spaces—a kitchen, a courtyard. I think maybe six or eight rooms in total. It’s run by Teesa Bahana and a very inspiring group of young Ugandans from the local community. They support the burgeoning ecosystem and help to imagine a new world.
I also visited another residency out in the bush. We sat under tents made of sheets, eating dinner while hearing lions and hyenas in the distance. It was run by a young Ugandan woman who had created a kind of semi-permanent tent structure on her land, overlooking a ravine. It was one of the most spectacularly beautiful spots I’ve ever seen.
So you don’t need a lot to create something there. But apart from Cape Town, most of these scenes are still in their very early stages.
Harry: There’s not much there— it starts from a very low base. In reality, the only fully developed ecosystem is in South Africa. Nowhere else has it in the same way. By ecosystem, I mean artists, institutions, art education, private museums, serious collections, and galleries—all of which work together.
In Nigeria, for example, you might have a few good collectors and some very strong artists, but there are no institutions, nothing really solid. The art education is average. I think the only real center is Nsukka, where El Anatsui was teaching. The University of Nigeria in Nsukka, in the east, has produced a lot of talent.
Lana: But even he had to leave Nigeria and move to Ghana. For security reasons—every time he went home to visit his village, there were kidnapping attempts.
The great irony of African art—especially the kind we focus on, which deals with colonialism, post-colonialism, the history of slavery, the impact of Europe carving up the continent—is that it’s often subtly anti-European. And yet, these artists need to come to Europe to gain recognition.
I can’t imagine the internal struggle. Think of a young student, full of bright ideas, revolutionary, with strong ideals. At the same time, as an artist, you want to be successful. And then comes that first hard lesson: which principle are you willing to compromise? If someone from London says, “Come to London, the great commercial center, and this is where you can build your career”—what do you do?
In a way, with your collection you’re doing something the institutional system cannot do. Also, by the luck of knowledge. You go deep, you discover the art, and you give it a voice. And you support artists.
Harry: We’re lucky. We’re involved. We come from Africa—that makes it easier. If we weren’t children of Africa, it would probably be much harder, maybe not even possible in such an organic way.
Lana: We are children who grew up in love with Africa as well.
Rashid Johnson, untitled Mask collage, 2017
It’s interesting that when EMST (the National Museum of Contemporary Art) in Athens reopened in September 2020, it did so with your collection—an exhibition titled Ubuntu.
Lana: For me, Ubuntu is an African philosophy: I only exist because we are. It’s perfect—in every aspect of our lives and of the world.
In the Ubuntu exhibition, we gave the curators complete freedom. The incredible thing about that show was that we had five curators, each with complete freedom. Our advisor, Emilie Gervais-Singu, was one. Then there was Osei Bonsu from Tate Modern. The exhibition design was inspired by an African kraal, a traditional village structure from South Africa. At the heart of this “village” we placed a work by Rashid Johnson, who became the symbolic center of the ecosystem. Altogether, they selected twenty artists.
We also invited Elvira Dyangani Ose, who at the time was director of The Showroom in London (she’s now in Barcelona). And the final curator was our close friend Burkhard Varnholt, a Swiss economist banker and collector who owns the KINDL Center for Contemporary Art in Berlin,together with his architect wife, Salome.
His connection to Africa is extraordinary. More than twenty years ago, he received a letter from an eighteen-year-old boy in Uganda, asking for money to buy books for his village. Burkhard didn’t throw it away—he sent €50 in an envelope. The boy replied with a diary and photographs of what he had done. Burkhard sent €100, and so began a friendship. Eventually, he flew to Uganda, met the boy, and founded Kids of Africa, an orphanage and school system. It’s structured around family-style homes: one “Mama” caring for ten children, with communal cooking, eating, and education. The foundation supports them all the way to tertiary studies, which is rare. That’s his connection to Africa.
So between him, the advisor, the institutional curator, the artist, and the independent curator, we built a team. The idea was: the only way to curate this show was to let others curate parts of it. We didn’t want our egos in it at all. We gave each curator access to our entire database, without knowing who the others were. They didn’t even see the full exhibition until the very end. And the most fascinating thing? Nobody chose the same piece.
Harry: And there were works I was genuinely shocked not to see chosen.
Lana: One of the most beautiful Ubuntu moments came from Osei Bonsu, whose room was right before Rashid Johnson’s. He had a long corridor, and in it he placed a major Johnson work—the one with the two black soap sculptures. He had no idea that Rashid himself was curating the next room.
So visitors walked through Osei’s corridor, past this enormous Johnson piece, and then entered Johnson’s own curated space—without either of them knowing what the other was doing. Only Emily knew. For us, that really captured the spirit of Ubuntu: not us, but the philosophy itself, raising up the artists and touching the curators as well.
Cassi Namoda, Maria’s second week in the city. 2019-2020
We’re talking about decolonization, and it seems you’ve found your unique way to approach it—politely, without directly forcing blame. In a way, you let things exist within Ubuntu. At the same time, there is always a responsibility.
Lana: I’m not sure it reads quite that way. For us, it’s about finding a theme. And again, it’s not forced—it happens very organically. With more than 400 works in the collection, there’s quite a lot to choose from. It always comes back to the art we love, to beauty—but yes, there is a responsibility.
The work is already “charged” from the moment of acquisition. Each piece has gone through a process of discussion before it comes into the collection. The themes are clear: artists addressing colonialism, living in a post-colonial world, the relationship with Europe and former colonizers, LGBTQ+ rights—still criminalized in some African countries—women’s rights, or the experience of navigating racism in Europe, America, or elsewhere if you have dark skin.
Those are the issues already embedded in the collection. For example, Lisa Brice’s work downstairs rethinks the way the white European male tradition painted women. Or Zanele Muholi, affirming that all women are beautiful, in all their different forms. These themes are not something we add later when rehanging—they’re already present in the works we choose to acquire.
If we continue this line of thought—your collection, the rehanging, Ubuntu—it feels as though everything is linked. And yet Africa itself was, in many ways, excluded. For a very long time it was a kind of missing point, even though so much power comes from there. It seems we are ready to recognise it only now.
Harry: Yes. In the West we’ve kept it out—partly from fear. We don’t understand it, so we exclude it.
Lana: There’s been a colonial narrative over the last 500 or 600 years—though not in ancient times—that Africans are somehow “second-class citizens,” that their way of life is inferior to ours. And it’s not true at all. Much of African culture is oral rather than written, which the West often failed to value.
Take the mine dances—a response to men being sent down into diamond and gold mines, taken away from their families, working in darkness all day. And yet, the incredible thing about Africa is this joy. No matter how hard you try to push her down, there’s joy. You never see more beautiful smiles than in Africa, despite everything.
It’s something we remind our children when they’re feeling down. They say, “You don’t understand,” and we say, “Go to Africa, then you’ll understand.” There, even with poverty, mothers wash their children with a little bucket of water, clothes are clean, babies are smiling, people are smiling. And we remind ourselves: wake up every morning and be grateful.
Harry: And they don’t frame every hardship as a mental issue, or feel the need to see a psychologist for everything.
What strikes me in your collection is that even when the works deal with serious issues, there’s no heaviness in them. They don’t feel dark or depressing. They carry another kind of language.
Lana: I never thought about it that way, but you’re right. Maybe we have a few darker works, but not many.
Harry: That’s also our personalities. As collectors, but even just as people, we prefer to look at the bright side. Of course there are undercurrents, but not “in your face.”
Lana: We do choose works on serious topics, but we gravitate toward those that communicate through joy. Maybe we want to spread the joy we feel. During lockdown, for example, I dreamt of Africa constantly. And as soon as it was possible, I went. In July I got an invitation, and by September I was in Accra. That’s the power of Accra.
And visually, the works are striking. They’re beautiful, even if the themes they touch on are very strong and contradictory.
Harry: Often there are more colors, more unusual or shiny materials. There’s something in African art—whether it’s the colors, the materials, or the themes—that makes it very appealing. People may not always recognize it, but they react strongly when they see it. And I like that reaction. It means something connects.
Lana: Of course, for some people it’s just exoticism—something “other” or new. But we know the history. Picasso went crazy for African art, dedicating an entire phase of his career to it. Many others followed. So maybe there’s something deeper: in the tribal masks, in pre-figurative traditions, in the bold use of color. Perhaps we’re still missing part of what they reveal.
For us, Africa is where we go to refill our souls. We listen to African music, and always the drum comes back. For me, the drum is so important. I imagine the very first person who invented the drum was someone who lay in silence and heard their own heartbeat. And that began in Africa, for sure.
Ibrahim Mahama, Chale Wote, 2014
I think African art also teaches us to look more carefully at ordinary things and recognize their value. Simple materials are all around us, but in the hands of those artists they become extraordinary.
Lana: Exactly. Take canvas, for instance. In Europe you can buy it at any art supply shop; in much of Africa, that’s not the case. One work in our collection, by Pascale Marthine Tayou, uses cheap pine wood for a frame. Inside, he glued pieces of black and white chalk salvaged from old classroom boards. On the pine he painted to make it look weathered, as if the frame itself had a history. Even that detail had to carry meaning. It’s touching every time I look at it.
One interesting thing about this theme is that many of the works are made from recyclable materials, used materials, and found objects. There are also practical reasons for this. Many of these artists grew up in Africa, where they don’t always have access to traditional canvases or artists’ materials, so they use what they can find. As a result, I think a very large proportion of art made from repurposed materials comes from the continent.
Take Michael Armitage. His work downstairs is not on canvas but on lubugo, a bark cloth made in Uganda. Even though he’s Kenyan, he uses this Ugandan practice. The bark is stripped, soaked, pounded, and stretched. Traditionally, it’s used as a burial shroud, wrapping the body of a loved one. The whole process is deeply physical and communal—an act of love before the art even begins. The material is also quite red, so if you turn the painting around, you notice a reddish hue on the back. It’s naturally imperfect, and Michael incorporates those imperfections—sometimes deliberately, sometimes by patching holes with stitches. That physicality and cultural resonance become part of his practice.
And then there’s Ibrahim Mahama. He buys new jute produce sacks, then exchanges them at the market for old ones.
Harry: Can you imagine how brilliant that is?
Lana: Because he wants the perspiration, the hard work, the struggle, and the soul of the people who have used them—those who have worked long hours in the sun, often earning just a few cents a day to put food on the table. These jute sacks hold traces of countless anonymous lives, imbued with energy and lived experience.
And then there’s the wax print fabric—it’s interesting because many of us look at these patterns and immediately think ‘West African fabric’. But the truth is more complex. This textile tradition actually began with the Dutch East India Company, who first developed the fabric in Malaysia market, trying—unsuccessfully—to find a market for it there. Eventually, they brought it to West Africa, where it took on a completely new life. Over time, the patterns evolved, and today, they’re deeply rooted in African identity. Some designs are specific to certain tribes or villages, and can even signify things like marital status.
It’s a powerful example of cultural transformation—something foreign becoming something entirely local, even emblematic of identity.
And then there’s Rashid Johnson, a giant on the African American art scene. In his work you see the typical West African foliage, alongside masks and shells—objects that are both decorative and, at times, a form of currency. And also the black soap. It’s a fascinating material. Black soap is manufactured in West Africa, and it’s handled solely by women. They plant, harvest, process, and create it. It can be an exfoliant for cosmetics, or a gentle cleanser for a baby’s body, or for a lover’s. So embedded in this very strong, powerful work of art is a deeply feminine energy, carried through the material itself.
Toyin Ojih Odutola, Routine Inspection, 2019
Art is the only medium where you don’t need words. Communication through art allows us to travel across bridges where verbal and other forms of language might be limited. Art also has the capacity to hold complexity in a way that words do not. Words can be corrupted, or understood differently by different people. They are more linear. In its own unique way, art carries a truth.
Lana: Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing the right thing when we walk people through the works. I hear interpretations of African art that feel so Western, so European, and not quite right. But then, am I right to judge that? Another part of me says: because this art is new and exciting for many, it’s important to give context. So I try to provide background without interfering in how people experience the work. It’s about offering keys, giving links, so people can then discover for themselves. Without that, they might just pass by.
This also ties to education. One of the biggest problems we are facing now is the educational system. The school programs are missing art education programs. Also, I don’t think arts education should be formulated on an idea of how to make little artists; instead, it should strive to sustain the artistic spirit of a child, which is there naturally. All you have to do is not damage it, not kill it. There’s plenty of good evidence that when kids have access to enriching arts curriculum, they’re enriched across the board. In a way, today we lost a way of knowing—how to look, how to feel, how to create with their own hands.
Lana: Exactly. It was dismissed as “craft.” Seen as children’s play, not serious. So they cut it from many schools. But what is art, really? We’ve discussed this before. When you’re five and told to color inside the lines—that’s not art. That’s hand-eye coordination training. Then you’re given crayons, paints, collage materials. Growing up in Africa, we did all of that. I loved it.
Harry: I remember when our son was in kindergarten, they called me in and said, “We have to punish him.” I asked why. They said, “He doesn’t paint within the borders.” I looked at them and said, “Are you serious? Do you know how much money I’ve paid for art that is always outside the box?”
Lana: There’s one important thing I want to say, because young people today think very differently from us. They’re so afraid of offending all the time—and I think that’s a big mistake. What they should focus on is not being offended all the time. I personally choose not to be offended. Otherwise, you waste your life.
When we go to New York, the younger generation tells us constantly: “Don’t ask that question. Don’t say that. You’ll offend someone.” Of course, there are many things they’re doing right, but this is one area where I think they’re wrong. We try to explain: choose not to be offended. Because when you take offense, it’s not really about the other person—it’s about you.
Even with us, as white collectors of African art, people sometimes say: “Who do you think you are? You have no right. You’re from the colonizing Europeans.” My answer is very simple: if you think like that, then only Chinese people can buy Chinese art, and then only Chinese people from one specific village can buy the art of that village. That’s absurd.
So we choose not to be offended by those insinuations.
Harry, at one point you said: One of the privileges of having money is that you can actually stand for your principles. And yet in politics and society you often see the opposite.
Harry: Yes, exactly. You see people who have all the money in the world, and yet they sell themselves out—for even more money. For me, that’s shocking. Especially in America, I’ve watched people compromise themselves, and I’m not sure for what.
One of the privileges of having money is that you can actually stand for your principles, stand for something you believe in. That’s what makes it so disappointing: people who have the capacity to stand for something meaningful, but choose not to take that opportunity.
I think it was Marina Abramović who once wrote in her artist manifesto: “An artist has to create a space for silence to enter his work.” In a way, the way your collection is hung achieves something similar—there’s a silence around each piece, and the viewer can really connect.
Lana: That’s interesting. I never thought about it like that, but yes—you’ve put words to something I feel. Even for me, living with these works every day, it’s never casual. I don’t just pass by. I still look at it every single time. And every time, there’s a kind of sacred moment. I stop, I look.
Maybe that’s simply the power of the work itself—it has nothing to do with us.
