Uit Rou Gebore: My Pad Terug na Kuns When Colour Found Me Again

My mooiste ma, Rodien

Waar begin ’n mens? Waar begin ’n mens om in ’n paar paragrawe te probeer verduidelik hoe die afgelope drie jaar jou lewe verander het?

Met alles wat ek die afgelope tyd beleef het, het daar in my ’n diep sensitiwiteit vir ander se seer en verlies gegroei.

Daarom hierdie sagte disclaimer: as jy self deur siekte, verlies of trauma gegaan het, lees asseblief met sagtheid vir jouself – of gee jouself die vryheid om hierdie te los. Ons senuweestelsel onthou meer as wat ons besef. Dit onthou trauma, verlies en swaar tye. Ek wil niemand se wonde oopkrap nie, maar ek wil eerlik my storie deel. Veral die storie agter my kuns – en hoekom ek ná vyftien jaar weer begin skilder het.

Ek was nog altyd kunstig op skool. In Graad 10 het ek begin besef dat die Here my met ’n gawe geseën het. My medium was charcoal, en my tema was nog altyd Afrika en kinders. My kunsonderwyser, meneer Scholtz, was ’n sagte man wat my fondasie met soveel wysheid help bou het. In matriek was Information Design by die Kunsfakulteit op Tukkies my eerste keuse. As jy my beter leer ken, sal jy gou agterkom ek het drie uiteenlopende liefdes: kuns, teologie en politiek. Hoe dit alles saamkom, weet ek self nie heeltemal nie. Of ek was oppad om ’n Helen Zille te word, of dalk ’n Art Director vir ’n tydskrif.

Soos baie eerstejaars het ek TUKS voluit geniet – ongelukkig ten koste van my kunsstudies. Op 17 het ek ’n roeping na die bediening ervaar. My lewenspad was vol draaie. Ek het eers by die Kunsfakulteit uitgeklim, by die DA Jeugliga aangesluit, nie gekeur nie – en toe uiteindelik Teologie op Stellenbosch gaan studeer, in die spore van my oupa Chris, Oupa Grootjie Fred en die sendelinge-roeping in ons familie.

In my derde jaar in die Teologiese Fakulteit het Jesus sy verlore skapie werklik kom haal. Ek het toegewy begin leef vir Hom en Sy wil vir my lewe. Ek het selde klas geloop – ek was altyd beter met lees as luister. Ek kon ure lank lees en byna fotografies onthou. My dosente was nie juis mal daaroor nie, maar deur genade het ek my Honneursgraad in Nuwe Testament Teologie voltooi.

Toe kom die seisoen van gesin. Ek trou, en ons word geseën met vier kinders. In September 2022 verloor ek my ma – nie aan die dood nie, maar aan ’n breinsiekte wat geen dokter tot vandag toe kan verklaar nie. ’n Jaar later word my dogtertjie gebore – sy wat soos my ma lyk, met dieselfde potblou oë. Met vier klein kinders kon ek nie voluit rou nie. Ek het gehuil, maar ek wou nie ’n afwesige mamma wees nie.

In Oos-Londen het ek ’n plek ontdek genaamd “Hart Space”. Daar het ek vir die eerste keer olie-verf en ’n kwas opgetel. Weer Afrika. Weer kinders. Die konstantes in al my wandelpaaie. Met elke kwashaal het iets in my begin herstel – asof my brein en hart weer leer voel het. Ek kon huil. Ek kon lag. Oor twee jaar het kuns my gedra deur die verlies van my ma – die mooiste vrou, die sagste mamma, met die mooiste blou oë.

Sy word nou voltyds in George versorg. Ek kan haar gaan sien, maar elke besoek bring die rou weer terug. Lang rou is iets wat ek vir niemand gun nie. As dit nie vir die Here en vir kuns was nie – veral vir die Here – sou ek nie geweet het hoe om hierdie pad te stap nie. Hy dra my, my pa, my broer, my ouma van 94, my tannie, en al my ma se vriendinne deur hierdie verlies.

En toe stap ek een dag in by ’n klein kunsgroepie hier in George – die 50+ tannies.Hulle het iets in my wakker gemaak wat lank geslaap het.Maar dit is ’n storie vir die volgende deel.

Blog Post: The Story Behind My Art

Where does one begin? Where do you begin to explain, in just a few paragraphs, how the past three years have changed your life?

Through everything I have experienced, I have developed a deep sensitivity toward the pain and loss of others. So here is a gentle disclaimer: if you have walked through illness, loss, or trauma yourself, please read this with kindness toward your own heart – or give yourself permission to skip it. Our nervous systems remember more than we realise. They remember trauma, loss, and heavy seasons. I do not want to reopen wounds, but I do want to share my story honestly. Especially the story behind my art – and why I started painting again after fifteen years.

I have always been artistic. In Grade 10, I realised that God had gifted me creatively. My medium was charcoal, and my subject was always Africa. My art teacher, Mr Scholtz, was a gentle man who helped shape my foundation with wisdom and care. In matric, Information Design at the Faculty of Visual Arts at Tuks was my first choice. If you get to know me, you’ll quickly discover that I carry three very different loves: art, theology, and politics. How they all fit together, I’m not entirely sure. Either I was on my way to becoming a Helen Zille, or an Art Director for a magazine.

Like many first-year students, I embraced student life fully – sadly at the expense of my art studies. At 17, I experienced a calling into ministry. My life path took many turns. I stepped out of art school, joined the DA Youth League, wasn’t accepted, and eventually studied Theology at Stellenbosch University, following in the footsteps of my grandfather Chris, Great-grandfather Fred, and the missionary calling in our family.

In my third year of theology, Jesus truly found His lost sheep in me. I became devoted to Him and His will for my life. I rarely attended lectures – I was always better at reading than listening. I could read for hours and retain information almost photographically. My lecturers weren’t thrilled, but by grace, I completed my Honours degree in New Testament Theology.

Then came the season of family. I married, and we were blessed with four children. In September 2022, I lost my mother – not to death, but to a brain disease that no doctor has been able to explain to this day. A year later, my daughter was born – she looks just like my mom, with the same deep blue eyes. With four small children, I couldn’t fully grieve. I cried, but I didn’t want to become an absent mother.

In East London, I discovered a space called “Hart Space.” There, for the first time, I picked up oil paint and a brush. Once again: Africa. Once again: children. The constants in all the winding paths of my life. With every brushstroke, something in me began to heal – as if my heart and mind were being gently rewired. I could feel again. I could cry. I could laugh. Over two years, art carried me through the loss of my mother – the most beautiful woman, the gentlest mom, with the bluest eyes.

She is now cared for full-time in George. I can visit her, but each visit begins the grieving anew. Long grief is something I would never wish on anyone. If it were not for God and for art – especially for God – I would not have known how to walk this road. He carries me, my father, my brother, my grandmother of 94, my aunt, and my mom’s friends through this loss.

And then one day, I walked into a small art group here in George – the 50+ ladies.They awakened a greater joy for life again. But that is a story for part II.