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Last week, the nation hailed jazz maestro Bra Hugh Masekela.
A few weeks earlier, poet laureate Keorapetse Kgositsile’s name was on everybody’s lips and trending on social media.
This week, theatre legend David Phetoe died and has been declared a national treasure.
But, be honest, how many of us know Kgositsile’s work or bought his books? Who really knew of Phetoe’s stage legacy outside of his role on Generations?
How many bought Masekela’s astonishing autobiography Still Grazing to understand his journey as an artist, and what role the artist plays in helping us shape a more equitable and humane society?
In the US, Masekela and Kgositsile were cultural giants.
They influenced trends in their fields and were studied in schools.
In the US, their work sold and they could eat as young artists.
At home, Kgositsile isn’t even in the school syllabus.
This week, the controversial but critically acclaimed gay Xhosa initiation film Inxeba opened in select cinemas at home, but in far fewer venues than when it screened in France.
It has picked up 19 awards across the globe, but only two of those are from home.
In Hollywood on Monday, Black Panther, an important revisionist superhero movie, opened to adoration, and South Africans Connie Chiume and John Kani celebrated on the red carpet.
What kind of roles and respect do they really receive at home?
In Germany last weekend, South African artist Robin Rhode was awarded the R1.3 million Zurich Art Prize. How many of us have even heard of Rhode, who is considered to be a pioneer in Europe?
Why do we only love our artists when they are loved elsewhere? Until we stop mindlessly consuming US culture and invest some time, energy and money in getting to know and support our artists – and listen to their voices and visions – they will continue to be lauded abroad and die penniless at home, only truly famous in death.
