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Photography by Kristin Lee Moolman | Words by Candy Reding Baloji is a Congolese-born director, art director, and musician who defies labels and transcends boundaries in music, film, and fashion. His layered journey—from receiving an order to leave Belgium to representing the country at the Oscars with his Cannes-winning debut feature—offers powerful lessons on resilience, identity, and the transformative power of art.For Baloji, identity has always been a dual-edged sword, both a question to navigate and a declaration to uphold. His name, translating to “man of science” in Swahili, originally held a sense of pride and purpose. Yet under colonial Christian evangelism, the name morphed into something far darker, twisted into meaning “sorcerer” or “man of occult sciences.” In a world deeply rooted in spiritual traditions and Christian beliefs, his name became a stigma, a provocation, and a challenge. “It’s like calling yourself the devil or a demon in Europe,” he explains. Growing up as a young boy in Belgium, the misunderstanding of his name led to a sense of displacement and alienation. It made people uneasy, forcing him inwards to find ease. “It wasn’t about embodying silence; it was about breaking it,” he reflects, offering a glimpse into the resilience that has since become his signature.Baloji’s path as an artist has been defined by his refusal to accept the limits placed on him. A self-taught creator who built his craft through exploration and persistence, he shaped his artistic identity within the resourceful and rebellious culture of 90s hip-hop. “Hip-hop is the real DIY,” he says, recalling how it taught him creativity and self-reliance. “You’re making your own flyers, photos, fanzines. My specialization was rap, but that naturally evolved into graffiti, graphic design, and architecture. Dance taught me about the movement of damaged Black bodies. DJing and sampling opened my ears to the music of other cultures; Caribbean, Latin American, and even my Congolese heritage.” This constant expansion of his creative field allowed him to embrace his roots while beating the expectations often placed upon them.Baloji’s journey as an artist began with a leap into the unknown when he joined the Belgian hip-hop group Starflam in 1998. It was a transformative moment, “Starflam taught me about life,” he reflects because “I was an undocumented, illegal teenager. I had an order to leave the country and was far from my family.” This disconnection from the familiar, paired with the hardships of his undocumented status, could have stifled his potential. Instead, it fueled his artistry. Through Starflam, Baloji learned to channel his inner world, turning his emotions, struggles, and dreams into powerful lyrical narratives. The collective gave him the tools to survive and thrive, crafting an identity rooted in self-expression and rebellion against societal constraints. This period laid the groundwork for his multifaceted career.While Baloji’s creative independence is unmistakable, collaborators and mentors who believed in his vision have also shaped his journey. Among them was the late Virgil Abloh, whose innovative spirit left a lasting impression. “I learned so much from Virgil”, Baloji shares. “He could move from one project to another without losing focus and was always open to other designers. He supported the Augure film project because it aligned with his mission to uplift Black women and, by extension, Black-owned businesses.” Abloh’s spirit of collaboration and cultural pride resonates deeply with Baloji. His excursion into fashion marks yet another exciting chapter: "I'm working a lot on the fashion and art direction aspect at the moment because I've gained confidence in my skills and aesthetic choices by working with professors at the Fashion Academy in Antwerp.” For Baloji, fashion is about garments and storytelling, how costumes, art direction, and narration create a cohesive and transformative visual language.Fashion, however, is not a newfound interest but a natural extension of his lifelong appreciation for craftsmanship. As he excitedly explains, "I've got a few fashion projects coming up, and I'm working passionately on the crafts that I've discovered by being a great aficionado of Belgian designers.” From Martin Margiela to Anthony Vaccarello, Baloji draws inspiration from the greats. He also admires icons like Karl Lagerfeld, particularly his work with Métiers d'Art, which combines tradition and modernity in high fashion.For an artist whose work resists labels, the interplay of cultural traditions is central to his creative process. Whether in music, film, or fashion, Baloji treats symbols and narratives with a curiosity that invites exploration and connection. “I read the newspaper, I listen to author podcasts, I read biographies, even 50 Cent's is a gold mine, full of knowledge. Culture is about reaching out, stepping out of your comfort zone, and learning from others,” he says. This philosophy extends into his personal life, where he immerses his young daughter in a broad spectrum of experiences. From waacking events - waacking is a street dance style - to art galleries, Congolese snack bars to Korean neighborhoods, opera houses, and street basketball courts, Baloji ensures that she grows up understanding the value of diversity. He says that different opinions and perspectives build character, and that’s something “I want her to carry forward.”The turning point in Baloji’s career came with his evolution from music to filmmaking. This shift, while natural in hindsight, was filled with challenges. He reveals that he went to the European Cinema Commission (the non-profit association that supports filmmaking in Europe) “26 times between 2012 and 2022, and they only gave me the green light once.” Despite the promises of diversity and meritocracy often preached in the industry, the experience disillusioned him. They make you believe in the idea of “when you want it, you can (get funding), but it’s a lie. It’s about knowing who has the power to make it happen.” Despite these barriers, Baloji’s persistence paid off. His film Omen (known locally as Augure) received international acclaim, showcasing his ability to tell deeply resonant stories across mediums. Yet he remains grounded, crediting much of his success to the support of his family. “I owe so much to my daughter’s mother, who supported me through four years of filmmaking without income or certainty. She’s my luck.”Freedom, strength, and rebellion run like threads through Baloji’s work, but these qualities did not come without struggle. He speaks candidly about the sacrifices he has made for his art, describing a pivotal moment when he poured 25k of his own money into a film project. “My cinematographer told me: ‘25K is what I pay for my house mortgage.’ I don’t have a house; I’m still renting. But I see that sum as an investment in my art, in fighting for it to exist despite the obstacles.” For Baloji, creation is a form of resistance and determination. His projects are not simply about aesthetics but about narrative, depth and meaning. “People misunderstand my work; they think it’s just about images. But the visuals tell a story. They look easy to imitate, but it’s the flow of ideas that counts. Execution changes over time, but the narrative is what endures.”Strangely, Baloji’s recognition in the film world solidified his broader reputation. As the president of the Camera d’Or at Cannes, he found himself in a position of respect within an industry that had long resisted his inclusion. “I think I’m one of the first self-taught filmmakers to win a prize at Cannes and represent a country at the Oscars.” His film Augure (known as Omen internationally) was the Belgian entry for Best International Feature Film at the Oscars in 2023. But there’s still a long way to go in breaking glass ceilings for creative minorities and Black men. However groundbreaking, Baloji’s achievements are only one step in a larger journey toward systemic change.Despite the seriousness of his work, Baloji finds ways to invite lightness into his life. “There’s a lot of humor in my films and my work in general, but it’s secondary at first sight”, he explains. Humor is the politeness of despair, but so is poetry. When it’s time to decompress, he turns to simple pleasures: traveling, cooking, watching soccer (his beloved Real Madrid), or indulging in the freedom of not setting the alarm. These moments of lightness, however small, are vital to his sense of balance.Peace, for Baloji, remains an evolving concept. “I don’t know if I’m at peace with my past, but not having all the answers keeps me alert. It inspires me to keep fighting for myself, my loved ones, and for change.” Through his art, he challenges certain ideologies and redefines what it means to belong. “Art shapes how we view identity and culture, but curiosity drives creativity,” he says. With this insatiable curiosity and a refusal to accept limits, Baloji continues to transcend boundaries, inspiring others to embrace their roots while daring to create something entirely their own. Baloji is not just a symbol of resilience; he invites us to dream bigger and create fearlessly.The Patta Magazine Volume 4 will be included for free with each online order of the Patta Angelwings T-shirt while stock lasts. 

Words by David KaneWhat Do You Call It? From Grassroots to the Golden Era of UK Rap took me over three years to write. It wasn’t supposed to. Deadlines came and went, and nine months before it was finally finished, I decided to rip it up and start again. Or at least start the start again. Part of that was driven by a change of start date, at first the book begins at the turn of the century a time fraught with tension (remember the ‘millennium bug’?), political machinations, and creative possibilities, where technology and culture were changing faster than it had for decades. But as I dug deeper, I realised I had to go further back, extending the scope to the start of the 1980s, when rap music landed on our odd little island, imported through the electro-driven hip-hop of Afrika Bambaataa, shaped by sound system culture, inspired by punk and accelerated by rave. And one name kept coming up. Thirty years ago, Tricky released Maxinquaye, and that album changed everything.By the early 90s, the excitement and promise of the UK hip-hop 1.0 had almost fizzled out. Dismissed by the media, denied by music industry gatekeepers, and only the most hardcore fans continued to show interest while the US was going through its golden into the gangsta era, attracting a broader—read, white suburban—rap music fan. There was friction within UK hip-hop, as Trevor Jackson, a.k.a Underdog and head of Bite It! Recordings, one of the few labels releasing consistently challenging hip-hop at the time, put it; “Everyone wanted to get a piece of a very small pie. Some UK foundational figures felt they owned everything and were entitled to success.” The energy in the UK had to come from somewhere and sound like something else.Adrian Nicholas Matthews Thaws grew up in Knowle West, a tough, predominantly white working-class area in South Bristol. Thaws was born to a Jamaican father and a Ghanaian-English mother, a poet named Maxine Quaye, who committed suicide when he was just four years old. His grandmother and various aunties brought him up. It was a happy, if unconventional, childhood despite being surrounded by violence;  “Where I come from, a lot of people are either on drugs, in prison or dead,” he later recalled. Fortunately, Thaws found solace in music. First, he was known as Tricky Kid, a rapper and sometime member of The Wild Bunch, a loose collective of musicians and artists who were so hip it hurt. They formed in the early 1980s and played at warehouse parties and Bristol institutions like St Paul’s Carnival, Special K’s cafe and the dingy Dug Out club. The influence of reggae sound system culture, punk, jazz, soul, and hip-hop were all present, but there was an unhurried melancholy to the music that was unique to a notoriously laid-back and diverse city.The Bristol music scene is a storied one, but The Wild Bunch — including Miles Johnson (a.k.a. DJ Milo), producer Nelle Hooper, Robert Del Naja (a.k.a. 3D), Grant Marshall (a.k.a. Daddy G), and Andrew Vowles (Mushroom) — were arguably the inception point and ruled the roost. Confident aesthetes, rolling around town on hi-tech mountain bikes decked out in Stüssy jeans and Vivienne Westwood shirts with an uncanny knack for sound. Milo introduced Tricky to the crew. He was a shy and sensitive teenager, but he had a supernatural talent for lyrics–sounding like a troubadour of darkness who had toked his way through a maze of marijuana. The collective dissolved in 1987, with Hooper joining Soul II Soul and Milo moving to New York, which left 3D, Daddy G, and Mushroom to form Massive Attack. Tricky appeared in three singles — “Daydreaming”, “Five Man Army” and “Blue Lines” — from the group's seminal debut album, Blue Lines (1991). A broody, epic sounding and insular feeling masterpiece, it helped redefine dance music and coin a new subgenre, trip-hop–a name almost every artist associated with it utterly detests, particularly Tricky. Both Tricky and, to a lesser extent, 3D rap with regional British accents, which was unheard of at the time, but the intention behind Blue Lines was to “Create dance music for the head, rather than the feet”, explained Daddy G. Yet Tricky was more interested in hip-hop. Tensions within Massive Attack (and The Wild Bunch before that) always seemed to be brimming close to the surface. While working on Blue Lines, Tricky produced the demo for “Aftermath”, a bluesy, smoky single with esoteric wood pipe samples featuring the dulcet tones of Martina Topley-Bird and Tricky’s haunting vocals. Tricky offered the track to Massive Attack as they were finalising their debut album, but 3D dismissed it, telling Tricky he’s “Never going to make it as a producer”. The single remained moored to tape, unreleased for a further three years. Shortly after the release of Blue Lines, Tricky departed the group and began working on solo material at a stoned snail's pace. Although ‘Aftermath’ laid the blueprint for what would eventually become his 1995 masterpiece, Maxinquaye (named after Thaws’ mother), a strikingly original body of work “Which acknowledged and accelerated what was new in the 90s, technology, cultural pluralism, and genre innovations.” As adroitly proposed by author Mark Fisher, a stark counter to the “reactionary pantomime of Britpop,” with its refuge in the past.That Tricky was even prepared to take centre stage was partly thanks to the mentorship of Mark Stewart, ex-frontman of legendary new-wave outfit The Pop Group and Bristol sound linchpin, who met Tricky via The Wild Bunch. Stewart is credited as ‘executive producer’ for Maxinquaye. If Stewart were the mentor, Martina Topley-Bird would often be framed as the muse (Tricky went on to have a romantic relationship with Topley-Bird). But in reality, Topley-Bird, who came from a well-off family with experience in the music business, helped influence as well as inspire the music for Maxiquaye, conceiving the jingle jangle melody of “Ponderosa” and provided an unexpected new take on the lyrics from Public Enemy’s “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” in “Black Steel”. The legend goes that Tricky met 15-year-old schoolgirl Topley-Bird outside his house, waiting for a bus and invited her to make a song on an impulse. That impulse continued in the eventual studio sessions, where all the vocals were recorded in the first take. Alongside the expected hip-hop, dub and soul influences, there is an art-rock weirdness to the sound, a sludgy filter over the percussion and, of course, that famed dark atmosphere with cracks of piercing light courtesy of Topley-Bird’s soothing vocal. “Let me take you down the corridors of my life.” Tricky beckons on “Hell Is Round The Corner”. Tricky was still in his early twenties when he wrote and recorded Maxinquaye. Yet, he had a pool of life experience to draw from, with no shortage of trauma and complexity, having grown up around gangsters with limited familial affection and often went looking for fights in Bristol’s nightclubs, wearing makeup and a dress. Drugs, sex, dysfunctional relationships, and a broader pre-millennium tension are subjects broached in the record. Despite this heaviness, he appears sensitive as he is streetwise and raw. Two things stand out from Maxinquaye and much of the music Tricky has made since. The first is how quietly Tricky raps, a silently disciplined zig to everyone else's clamorous zag, which demands the listeners' attention. The second is his androgyny as a lyricist; in “Suffocated Love”, a seemingly straightforward track on the inner dialogue of a couple where the man gets the sex, and the woman gets the money, isn't quite what it seems with sexual violence and man's dread of intimacy playing the background; “I keep her warm, but we never kiss / She cuts my slender wrists”. “I think ahead of you, I think instead of you”, Topley-Bird’ teases in response. It’s worth remembering that Tricky is responsible for nearly all the lyrics on Maxinquaye, a morass of gender-bending adventure and sonic contortion. In an interview with Mark Fisher for The Wire, Tricky admits his “Lyrics are written from a female perspective a lot of the time.” This takes us to the fourth significant collaborator on the album—there were others, including The Cure producer Mark Stewart and DJ Howie B, who got burned by the experience, but that’s another story—in the voodoo homage to the mother he never knew, claiming that she channelled his lyrics through him and Martina Topley-Bird. The album prompted universal and hyperbolic critical acclaim, perhaps the most memorable of which was David Bowie's 2,000-word paean in Q magazine. In this, Bowie, in typically Bowie-esc glossolalia, acknowledged the arrival of an heir to his shape-shifting crown (or tiara?) and also recognised that his own game might be up. “Here come the horses to drag me to bed,” Bowie concluded. “Here comes Tricky to fuck up my head.”Despite the success of Maxinquaye—the record proved a completely unexpected commercial triumph, reaching number 3 in the UK album chart, selling over half a million copies since, and regularly appearing in ‘best of’ lists—Tricky’s life didn’t get any easier. There have been battles with mental health, problems with guns (his cleaner’s young son accidentally set off a Uzi in his New Jersey apartment), and a hedonistic lifestyle that almost left him in financial ruin. Most tragically, Mazy, his daughter with Topley-Bird, took her own life in 2019.  Like all great minds, Tricky reminds us how noble, tortured, and downright absurd a creature humans can be. And he writes raps as hard as hell. What Do You Call It? From Grassroots to the Golden Era of UK Rap is out now on Velocity Press. The book is available directly from the publisher, all good book and record stores. It’s a book about the evolution of rap music in the UK, when hip-hop landed on our odd little island in the early 1980s. Shaped by sound system culture, inspired by punk, and accelerated by rave, A sound that has evolved from Britcore, UK hip-hop, and trip-hop of the late twentieth century to garage, grime, and drill. What Do You Call It? is also a story about what it means to be seen and to belong to this country. Get familiar with David Kane or head to your local Patta store to get your copy of Patta Magazine Volume 4 now.

Farida’s work doesn’t just engage; it rallies while exploring intersectionality and the influence of monetary economics, heritage, and politics on the future of globalism and community life. Hip-hop, punk activism and social care are all themes the acclaimed multi-disciplinary artist puts on wax via screen prints, textile art, murals and beyond. Her label HOSSELAER (est. 2008) has collaborated with Patta and Junya Watanabe, while her oeuvre includes a partnership with Emory Douglas, artist and former Minister of Culture for the Black Panther Party, in collaboration with HipHopHuis Rotterdam and work for Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. Farida also recently designed a beautiful book and the visual identity for Our Colonial Inheritance at Wereldmuseum Amsterdam, where her art installation occupies an entire room. As the newly crowned winner of the Amsterdam Prize for the Arts - Work of the Year for her solo show and art market People’s Forum, Farida levelled the field, bum-rushed the show and won big. For those usually left looking up. For the underdog. For the arts. For the people.DOMINIQUE NZEYIMANA: Cover girl!FARIDA SEDOC: “A 44-year-old cover girl! Nice!” (laughs)

DM: Congratulations on your major Amsterdam Prize for the Arts win! I’d love to talk about the process behind People’s Forum, your now award-winning exhibition. I witnessed first-hand how fantastic it was. How did you land on wanting to do it and when did you start building it?

FS: “Some years ago, I had a conversation with Fadwa Naamna, an artist and curator living in Amsterdam. We’d worked together on an exhibition at the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. During that time, we talked about W139 - the independent art space squatted in the ‘80s by artists looking for alternatives to the traditional art world. W139, much like major institutions such as the Rijksmuseum or the Stedelijk, is often debated in the Dutch art scene, especially when it comes to its funding and future. The Netherlands has this unique, discourse-driven subsidy system free from commercial influence that supports critical thinking. W139 was on shaky ground financially around then, as Fadwa and I discussed alternative ways to sustain such spaces. The concept of organising a bazaar came up and I suggested an art market where artists could sell anything they wanted, not just their work. The idea clicked, and Fadwa invited me to develop it further when she joined the artistic team at W139. Initially, we planned it for 2021, but the pandemic delayed everything. A couple of years on, we set a date for late 2023. Working with W139’s new team and co-curator Claudio Ritfeld, we started drafting budgets, securing funding and coordinating logistics together with technical and supporting staff. It was a long road. In the Netherlands, curators often have to source their own funding instead of working with a pre-approved budget. It makes the process complex. It’s like: ‘Hey, do you want to do an exhibition?’ If you say: ‘Yeah!’, they reply with: ‘Oh, also, we don’t have any money.’ (laughs) And then if you’re still up for it, you start building a case to get funding.”Photographed by Pieter Kers, W139, 2023, Exhibition People's ForumDM: That takes a lot of faith!

FS: “Of course, you get some money while you’re working on your bid. But it does highlight the vulnerability of the art world. Institutions might provide a buffer but for artists, financial uncertainty is constant. It’s a system that often limits opportunities to the privileged few. After months of development and waiting, we finally secured backing from sponsors. So, after the 2022 group show Non-profit At All Cost I curated at NEST in The Hague, I was officially invited to do my first institutional solo show at W139. I wanted it to serve as the backdrop for a public programme that could engage wider audiences beyond the art world – a decision that also tied back to certain funding requirements. The market became part of this programme, spanning two weekends. Half the vendors were people we know and the other part was curated through an open call. They joined us, offering everything from independent magazines and music to clothing, crafts and handmade goods. Athenaeum Boekhandel hosted a pop-up, vinyl sellers brought their good shit and local artists added something unique. Artist advocacy group Platform BK had an office-in-residence. We also hosted workshops every Friday to help artists professionalise their artistic practices. These sessions covered everything from navigating contracts and understanding AI to owning your rights and working with digital art. Lawyers with art backgrounds guided participants and answered questions. For me, it wasn’t just about the market but about creating a space where artists could experiment, collaborate and exchange. The collectivity of it all was powerful.”DM: How did you approach the Farida Sedoc - Solo Exhibition part of it? 

FS: “I was working on what I love most: screen printing. I had been collecting images and when I thought about the huge space at W139, I initially wanted to make large works that would have an impact. But creating several big pieces wasn’t doable time and budget-wise, so I decided to make about 40 smaller works instead, hung in a single round-about line as one cohesive series. I also want to add that the graphic design and spatial design was done by Heavy Bones, and the success of the show as a whole was greatly impacted by this. It allowed me to focus on the story I wanted to tell rather than being overwhelmed because I had to fill the room. I also love doing research, so I set out to explore feminist archives. But the pandemic made access difficult. Instead, I went to my mom’s house and found a trove of books and self-published ‘80s magazines. The themes were still deeply relevant today, so I took pages that caught my eye and used them to create new prints and collages. One moment that stood out was finding old newspaper clippings about my father and my mother’s university friend. It highlighted the importance of migrant communities documenting and sharing their own stories, rather than having them told by others. This inspired me to create works that imagined new futures while building on past stories - a way of reflecting on our own narratives and shaping what’s to come.”

DM: What was the most important takeaway from the overall experience?

FS: “People’s Forum proved that it can be whatever you want: selling your art, the cookies you baked or even clothes left lingering in your closet. Artists have many facets. The beauty was that you weren’t forced to sell your art, if you made the best hot chocolate in Amsterdam, you were welcome to sell that. It forces you to reconsider what defines your practice and how you want to make a change in the world. At its core, it was about sharing resources and challenging the exclusivity and pretentiousness of the traditional art world. It responded to the idea that artists must follow a set path: go to art school, land a gallerist, make work in a studio and then let the gallery sell it. But that’s not the only way. People’s Forum showed there are many paths to success and no shame in a non-linear journey. The market also brought accessibility to the conversation. Artists reserved tables for 25 euro and sold whatever they felt like, with some making 600 euro, enough to cover their rent for the month. How great is that!”DM: I love how you have this introverted energy that I completely relate to, but yours almost always gets overruled by your care for the collective. FS: “I, myself, love working alone. I’ll be in my studio, minding my business, chugging away. But when I’m ready to step outside, a lot of my work is about shared energy. Not everyone is entrepreneurially inclined, yet the system often demands it. People’s Forum is a DIY approach to the art world system but with a collaborative spirit. Instead of DIY it became DIT, ‘Do It Together’. The Amsterdam Prize jury and the city saw it as something wild and impactful.”DM: So, where do you want to take your work next and what about HOSSELAER? How do you sense when it’s time to tap back into your brand?FS: “Well, it’s more practical. Whenever I have an exhibition, I create HOSSELAER merch, like a T-shirt capsule. It’s always tied to the show and when people are excited about the exhibition but perhaps not yet familiar with my work, they want something to take home. A T-shirt becomes an accessible way for them to connect with the exhibition without necessarily having to buy a piece of art. It’s also a way to communicate the message or context of the show in a simple, affordable format. I also enjoy doing collabs, but not by directly linking HOSSELAER with other brands. Instead, I’ll design T-shirts on commission. Like when I worked with Patta, they reached out and asked: ‘Hey, would you like to design a T-shirt for this project?’ and I said: ‘Bet, let’s do it!’ These collabs are more project-based. Of course, I’d love to keep doing this, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s not my core business. That was hard to accept at first, but I’m okay with it now. Sometimes, I think about improving the quality of the T-shirts. For instance, on a random Monday night, I’ll go: ‘We need to step up the quality’. Recently, my studio mate made a really nice T-shirt and I was shocked by how good the fabric was. I yelled: ‘What is this?! I have the same supplier, but they never sent me these!’ (laughs). Then by Wednesday, I’ll have forgotten about it and three months later, it’ll pop back into my head. My neighbour says, at this pace, I’ll have a successful T-shirt business when I’m 80. Which is fine by me. Hopefully, I can keep collaborating - whether in fashion or another field - and maintain enthusiasm for the creative process. I’ve seen too many artists lose that passion over time, for various reasons, and it’s such a shame. Whether the work is big or small, I want to keep that fire close to me. It’s about having something to say, staying connected with my medium and finding my tribe. That’s what I strive for - to stay true to my art and continue to express myself in ways that resonate with others.”Photographed by Peter Thijhuis, Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, 2020, The Future Ain't What It Used To BeDM: What’s next? I know you want to retreat a little bit, but momentum is also a real thing. 
FS: “What’s most important for me is that, as an artist, the focus stays on the work. Once your attention shifts to everything around it - negotiating contracts, dealing with different departments, making videos about the project or talking about it - then the quality of the work itself starts to suffer. That’s why I don’t say no just to say no - I do it because I need to stay sane and capable. I need time to sleep well, be able to get out of bed, not burn out and approach projects with the right energy. Whether I’m happy, pissed the fuck off or somewhere in between, I still have to be motivated to create. And that’s where I’m at now. I want to make space for that, and the prize gives me that freedom - to take time and develop new work. Even though I do have exhibitions lined up for 2025, I’m prioritising that deeper engagement with my practice. As for other goals: a solo expo internationally would be cool.”
DM: Any specific museums you have in mind?
FS: “I’ve learned to go where people understand my work without much explanation. In independent, experimental spaces, there’s genuine respect, and people get the work for what it is. That’s where I feel most at home. The gallery world is still new to me, and I’m exploring it to understand what production and storytelling mean in that more commercial setting. I want to dive deeper into that context. Sometimes I feel I may be overthinking it, but it’s a process and I’m open to seeing where it leads. Some of my friends will say: ‘Money is nice, Farida, it’s really fun to have. You don’t have to make it so complicated. Just create something, and then the gallery will sell it.’ (laughs) I’m still figuring out what that balance looks like for me. And finding a good gallerist is almost like finding a lover. You can’t force it.”Photographed by Goedfolk & Charlotte Markus, Nest Art Space, 2022The gallerists I know work so closely with their artists. They call them almost every day just to talk about what’s on their mind. It’s like a marriage. I don’t think I could take on a second husband or wife like that. Speaking of love: the night you won the Amsterdam Prize for the Arts, my IG feed was full of Farida, which was the best. Everybody was rooting for you. You were in a category with Steve McQueen. How do you look back on that moment? FS: “It was amazing to win a prize from the city and the people of Amsterdam, not just the art community. The recognition felt good, especially knowing a lot of this year’s winners were underdogs who have been at it for years and kept pushing against all odds.”Photographed by Goedfolk & Charlotte Markus, Nest Art Space, 2022DM: How did your family react? FS: “My dad is proud. My mom was at the ceremony, and brought along a bunch of elders. They were drinking wine and having an excellent time! (laughs). My daughter and my partner were with me, as were my little niece and my neighbour’s kid - they’d never been up that late. Our crew was rolling 20 or 30 deep. All the nominees were smiling big at the cameras. Everyone wanted that grant! My fellow nominee Ena, who’s won a bunch of Golden Calves (the award for the Netherlands Film Festival), told me backstage that she knew I had this. When they announced People’s Forum as the winner, everyone screamed as loud as they could. It was a great night.”The Patta Magazine Volume 4 will be included for free with each online order of the Patta Angelwings T-shirt while stock lasts.