Art can start conversations; it can spark ideas, just like music’s influence, the power of protest theatre.
You look. Then look again. Stare. Take it in. And then wonder about it.
There’s an edge to pop surrealist Kayf’s work that, at least in musical terms, reminds of Pink Floyd, Jim Morrison, the Psychedelic Furs.
You get the picture, which is as provocative as it is stimulating. It suggests sardonic humour dressed up as irony.
Kayf’s an artist who makes you swallow before saying anything. She’s funny, somewhat self-deprecating and a ball of creative, infectious energy. She’s a Gen Z, and wears a mask to conceal her identity somewhat, despite being an open book in a chinwag.
“I decided to be a faceless artist because it allows me to grow and change in a way that doesn’t affect my art,” she said.
“Some artists, especially female artists, have their image associated with their art. But when you are faceless, you can change, you can become whatever you want and still produce art. I wanted that for myself.”
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It’s the same kind of yearn for freedom of expression that she expresses on canvas, paper, and photographs, and creates masks that carry the same charged, often confronting, spirit as her two-dimensional work.
Her pieces mix cartoon iconography with a raw and sometimes erotic visual language.
“My art uses a lot of cartoons, especially the cartoons I used to watch as a child, like The Powerpuff Girls, The Jetsons,” she said.
“I love using cartoons and the juxtaposition that it makes with the realism of photography, and just the bright, oversaturated colours of cartoons. It makes something that catches your eye.”
Born to a Ukrainian mother and a Zimbabwean father who met while he was studying architecture in Ukraine, Kayf grew up with a worldview shaped by television and the internet.
“A lot of culture was globalised. It wasn’t just what I learned from my parents or the people around me, and it expanded my art in a way that a lot more people can understand,” she said.
Scroll Kayf’s work
Art, however, was not her first career choice.
“When I was a child, I always painted, but my parents said, Oh, art will never work. So, I was a Montessori preschool teacher, studying for it. Then I realised I don’t like kids.
“I went to university for international studies and realised politics wasn’t for me. Then I thought, I’m going to do something artistic. So, I became a tattoo artist. I really liked it, but I started getting carpal tunnel. My wrists were too weak. I didn’t know what to do next, and I came back to art.”
Kayf’s work often has a gender-fluid, sexually charged undertone, but she is quick to clarify that her erotica is more about empowerment than provocation.
“I wanted to explore my sexuality in a way that was my own, that wasn’t what other people told me to do or what I thought other people expected of me.
“I found a creative outlet through my art.”
Her approach is intentionally unfiltered, a pushback against what she sees as repetitive trends.
“People are shocked by my work, but I find that there are people who enjoy it and understand it,” she said.
“I think there is a market for pop art, especially if it’s earnest. Recently, there’s been a lot of cookie-cutter art, and people are tired of it. They want to see something new.”
Humour, she added, is non-negotiable.
“When someone looks at my art, I want them to find humour in it. I want them to laugh. I don’t want them to be serious.”
Art starts conversations
Art can start conversations; it can spark ideas, just like music’s influence, the power of protest theatre. She said art can provoke discourse and open doors that may otherwise remain shut.
“Some of my work is about war, some of it is about sexuality. These are things that could be difficult to talk about. If you are looking at the work, standing next to another person in a gallery, for example, you can strike up a conversation. Engage. Talk about things.”
Kayf’s work is presently at Fourways-based gallery Art Eye.
