To hold, to touch and to shape Black Scottish history
Responding to maud. by Natasha Thembiso Ruwona
By Eilidh Akilade - 23/06/23
Her hands bloom outwards again and again. Another’s hands clasp mid-air before sinking to the right, sweetly. One hand – of another, still – holds their fingers tightly and then suddenly detaches, spinning out in circles. And the left hand of another comes under the right and it is held, supported, by that which is its sistren, its brethren. It relaxes before springing upwards, fingertips splaying, signalling a new thought for Maud Sulter and for us all.
I hold these hands in watching Natasha Thembiso Ruwona’s maud.
The film documents the work and legacy of the late Black Scottish artist Maud Sulter. Both her writings and visuals were grounded in Black feminist thought, while adopting a highly collective practice. maud. brings together four contemporary Black Scottish artists on screen – Adebusola Ramsay, Camara Taylor, Sekai Machache, and Zoë Zo, Zoë Tumika & Zoë Guthrie – continuing this collaboration. Although undeniably revolutionary, Maud Sulter’s contribution to Britain’s contemporary art scene, as a Black Scottish woman, is routinely forgotten and disregarded. maud. reconfigures this by reminding us that Sulter’s work, practice and legacy is still very much with us: to hold and to shape and to make with our very own hands.
It begins with Vaseline lips and clarity: “I want to rejoice in the blackness of the skin.” It’s an excerpt from Sulter’s poem I Want to Rejoice, performed here with such potency by Ramsay. There’s a physicality signalled immediately. We’re up close with these words and these lips, the skin and its Blackness. And the word “in” – with it, the Blackness of the skin becomes a space in which joy can happen. It’s a space which maud. certainly enters into. With returning interludes of Sulter’s writing, a Black Scottish physicality is not only presented but celebrated.
But such solidity is woven into the featured artists’ words, also. There is a sense that these conversations have not been poked and prodded; rather, they materialised through their own will. Each artist seems to be in communion with the others – and I think that they know it. Their language around Sulter is firmly rooted in the material: “excavating memory”; “foundations” to “play with”; “touched me”; “makes”, “shapes”, “holds”. In maud., collectivity becomes realised through calls to the physical. And it’s a truly affirming process to witness.
These conversations are placed, also. While Sekai Machache speaks, Edinburgh Castle sits behind them, mighty and a little blurred, propping up the not-yet-disassembled seating bank from the Military Tattoo. Ruwona reminds us through situating us: Black Scottish art exists within Scottish history. Our art is not entirely separate from the landscape within which Scottish culture has been built. It is affirming to acknowledge this.
We return not simply to a certain past, but also to certain rhythms. The mbira sounding throughout is played by Ruwona themself. There’s a light echo to the sound, reminding us of its source, all wood and metal. Ruwona is not simply directing or gazing; their art – here, music – is physically part of the film, creating a collective experience for us all. There is something of a visual rhythm, also. Signalling a move from one thought to another, a warm orange glow spreads across the screen and clicks away. It is reminiscent of closing your eyes into the face of the sun, letting the colours spill without sight. Again, Ruwona reminds us: there is a body of Black Scottish art, and this body is living and feeling and experiencing. A cleancut, clinical gaze is rejected for something much more meaningful. Sacred, even.
Yet there is space for a traditional practice, even still. maud. is an archive in itself but it also moves through a pre-existing archive of Sulter’s work, conversations continued as book after book is placed on top of one another. Ruwona is clear: Black Scottish art is real enough to hold and to share, to flick through sun-stained pages. One book cover is slightly crumpled, well worn. The light gathers in white pools across the royal blue and it is yet another reminder that Sulter’s legacy has a physicality with weight and matter – enough matter to allow reflection. maud. itself is part of this reflection. A hand reaches out and places another blue book on top: Sulter’s Passion. The light shifts on both, accordingly. It would move differently, with my touch or yours. This distinction feels key: this is how their hands, their thoughts, meet Sulter’s – but how do mine and yours? maud. encourages us to discover for ourselves.
I think of the community of Black Scottish artists I hold dear. I embrace them when we reunite at some event, taking them and all their joy in with a smile; I follow their instructions as I create in a workshop they are leading; I treasure their zines or books, tracing my finger over their names in bold.
Imagination is a vital, radical act – and I am committed to it – but maud. is a reminder that perhaps, sometimes, we do not need to imagine. Or, at least, we do not need to solely imagine Black Scottish art. It is here, and it exists, and we have Maud Sulter to thank for a great deal of that.
You can watch maud. at Fringe of Colour Films 2023 here.
Eilidh Akilade is a writer based in Glasgow. She is Intersections Editor at The Skinny and her writing can be found in publications such as gal-dem Dazed, and Extra Teeth, amongst others. In 2022, she was awarded PPA's Scotland Young Journalist of the Year Award.
