As a concept, Creating in Exclusion was highly inspired by the artists around me and the difficulties they faced in their everyday lives; how systemic pressures got in the way of them making art. During conceptualisation, "Sex, Race and Class" by Selma James acted as a critical reference point. Her work helped push the narrative of how artists strive within their chosen families and the autonomous spaces they’ve carved out for themselves, spaces that allow them to exhibit their artistry and nurture their creative spirits in the absence of institutional support.

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I’ve listened to friends have their work ridiculed by people who didn’t care enough to ask what the message behind it was. I’ve heard someone say a musician “wasn’t doing enough” to launch their career meanwhile, that same artist spends every waking hour creating and practicing. I’ve heard people call visual work “juvenile” because they couldn’t or wouldn’t engage beyond the surface. Had they asked, they would’ve been let into the deep and intentional workings of that artist’s process.

Creating in exclusion, and not being given the chance to showcase on your own terms, puts you in a strange, destabilising place as an artist. Are you only “good enough” if your work is profitable, or if the right critic deems you worthy? When will it be enough? In thinking about this, James’ words echoed again: “We are the work that makes all other work possible.” That line brought clarity: the hidden, underpaid, or unpaid work we do as artists isn’t supplemental to culture, it is the culture. Yet too often, it goes unrecognised until it can be mined for profit.

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This shoot was to be used as visual material for an event that I in collaboration with Linda Rushingwa and Khumo More created to celebrate the connections we’ve made within our respective spaces—to highlight the invisible labour our peers have done for the community at large.

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Selma James’ writing urged me to investigate the specific forms of exclusion we were facing and how these conditions interrupted not only our daily lives, but the making of art itself. We faced three forms of being “paperless,” each making it difficult to live, let alone create:

1. Many of us were university or college dropouts, and that made “real-world” survival hard. Art became a kind of proof of worth. Your artistry was your degree. But without formal qualifications, the seriousness of your work was still questioned. You were seen as someone with a hobby, not a real artist.

2. For one friend, lacking legal documentation meant she couldn’t fully live her life. Her craft wasn’t just an escape, it was the asylum she sought.

3. And then there was the constant economic exclusion and the real paperlessness. You’re a creative in your mind, because you cannot afford the resources to make. To be. We lived in these gaps constantly.

This lack was often paired with shame, especially in the face of systematic exclusion. We found ourselves in spaces where we were suddenly too Black, too Trans, too “uppity” or too loud in how we presented ourselves. Our beings and our art were either radicalised when they weren’t or silenced when they were. We were seeking belonging in spaces that punished our existence. That’s when I realised that spatial exclusion was our deepest challenge. We weren’t trying to conform to the status quo, but our art was too meaningful, too beautiful to remain unseen. It couldn’t belong only to ourselves.

And yet, the economics of art are unforgiving. If you can’t sustain your art how do you expect it to sustain you?

During the shoot, when people were improvising roles, when we figured out how to highlight DdoubleDee’s work, when a curtain was suddenly a backdrop and imphepho our flowers. That’s when I understood the answer was kinship. Having your kinfolk around doesn’t erase the exclusions of everyday life, but it transforms them. Building within community, leaning into the spaces that your people have already made possible for us, changes everything. Whether it was a word of encouragement or asking a rapper who’d never modelled to get in front of the camera. These gestures weren’t small, they were necessary.

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In the journey of Creating in Exclusion, I discovered that if you’re surrounded by people who truly see you, then you and your art are safe. Being excluded from the spaces you thought you belonged to can fracture both your spirit and your creativity but it’s through community that we find our way back.

This photoshoot is proof of that. It was created with nothing but an idea, one camera, some artwork, and seven willing souls whose only desire was to create and offer the world something honest. Regardless of who sees us, who listens to the music, we’ll keep making art. We’ll keep being true to ourselves, until one day, we’re too big to contain.

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