Prisca is the first name my mother gave me, Munkeni is my father’s name, Fury is the name I chose. The country that saw me born is not mine, the state that saw me grow up has disappeared, the nation of my passport barely exists. There remains my culture, with a memory weakened by the upheavals of history, and whose survival rests only on a handful of people, an oral tradition whose breath is diminishing.
Without doubt, this is the breeding ground for my art…” – this propensity to want to create a dialogue between frozen moments, to extend their existence to infinity, to force them to speak in an environment saturated with elements, with light. Over time, objects, places or characters through which our identity is forged dissipate, turning into memories with diaphanous shapes.
The weight of their meaning, the frustrations or pride generated are slowly buried in our daily lives, on the verge of oblivion. And memory, caught up in this daily life, loses the thread: why we cry, why we love, why we live… A banal journey, a traced path, a marked route. Zairian, born in Brussels in 1981, raised in Kinshasa. I branched off…Johannesburg where my art blossomed. Then Paris, the explosion.
