“Intersectionality is so important. Queerness is inherent in all of nature and should be visible in conversations around the environment and the climate crisis.” - Luke Rudman.

Luke Rudman

Multi-Disciplinary Artist and Environmental Activist.

Pronouns: He / Him

I was born in Gqeberha in 2000. I lived with my mother and brother – my father passed away when I was very young. I spent a lot of my childhood fixating on different plants and animals – I lived on the edge of town. I also remember that my toddler-self had an ‘alter-ego’ - I would dress up in the dresses and hats and jewellery from my mother’s closet. Maybe that was a foreshadowing of the performance art I create today… I’m not sure.

You’ve talked about growing up in a very creative household, with both of your parents being artists and art teachers. What kind of artistic expressions were you exposed to that you think laid the foundation for your own expressions?

Before he passed in 2001 my father was a practising artist and teacher at a school in Gqeberha. Although, because I was so young when he passed I’m not sure how to quantify the influence that he had on my own practice. Someone who was close to my father once told me that he had regretted pursuing art – that stuck with me. I think, because of him, I’m more conscious of how art lives on after the death of its author. I think I am also more conscious of the danger of regret and I am more conscious and intentional with how I continue on my journey as an artist.

Is there something you created as a child that you consider your first piece of art?

Not that I can remember, no. I’m sure there are drawings somewhere, but I don’t have any particular memories.

I know you went to Grey High School, and as someone who also went to an all-boys school with a warped value system, I know it can be a challenging environment for anyone who falls outside of traditional ideas of masculinity. Were you hesitant to create “I Don’t Play Rugby” - your first artwork that tackles the idea of toxic masculinity?

The artist and his piece “I Don’t Play Rugby”.

In a way “I Don’t Play Rugby” was my ‘farewell’ to a toxically traditional, straight cis male-centric space. I was in my final year of high school at the time. The work was a larger-than-life self-portrait, in the school uniform, in make-up and body paint – as a statement about belonging, and who ‘gets’ to belong to certain systems. Additionally, the work also addressed the hierarchies and power systems that I observed within that school that seemed to purposefully remove power and access from individuals who did not - or could not - conform to a particular standard of masculinity. In this case rugby was the dominant power structure - it was used as a means to police a young boy’s masculinity - including my own. Looking back, the vicious response to that painting was much more interesting and revealing than the work itself – I wish that I had had the foresight to document more of it. I remember a lot of attempts to censor the work – I would often leave the studio and come back to an empty easel after students tried to hide the work from view. The studio was kept locked thereafter because of fear that the work would be vandalised. The response to the work was really eye-opening. The fragility and pettiness of that type of system was exposed.

You are also very specific about the time (October 2017) you discovered body art / painting. What can you share about making that discovery? Was it linked to finding your “voice” as an artist? Or was it simply experimenting with how the work of Gustav Klimt (if I’m not mistaken, you were working on a sculpture inspired by his work at the time) would translate onto your own body?

I remember telling the story that I had bought a bunch of make-up in 2017 with the intention of using it as an unconventional painting medium... however, I probably had ulterior motives.

Man with his Shadow (2020)

I was always drawn to flamboyance and colours and wearing things that took me outside of the binary of gender expression. I see various examples of that fascination throughout my childhood. I remember seeing Klimt’s work – as well as many other lionised, mainstream artists – and appreciating it, largely, for how beautiful it was. But I find it hard to resonate with that work now.

Before 2017, however, you said in an interview with Design Indaba: “I found myself growing up and developing my sense of self in places that constantly undermined my identity”. Would you be able to share more about these experiences and how you went about removing yourself from these places?

I think my experience is pretty standard amongst queer people. There is an ‘othering’ that you experience as you grow up in conservative, fundamentalist spaces – particularly in smaller cities. The process of healing is an active one – requiring constant learning and unlearning. I found my catalyst for healing in queer community, chosen family and by removing myself from spaces which refused to grow with me.

Self-Portrait in Pink (2021)

Your work- which is crafted using discarded plastic and materials, and has been featured in campaigns for the likes of Greenpeace- is rooted in environmentalism and eco-activism, but you’ve also talked about not wanting the queerness of your work to be erased. Can you expand on that and the idea of environmentalism being intersectional?

I have been working with Greenpeace for the last 4 years. Upon my first collaboration with Greenpeace - I never questioned the queerness of my work. Intersectionality is so important. Queerness is inherent in all of nature and should be visible in conversations around the environment and the climate crisis. The presence of queerness in my work does not make it biased and to ‘erase’ the queerness from my work does not make it neutral – heteronormativity is not the rubric.  

Performance art is quite a crucial part of what you do- would you agree that installations, interventions and public performance art are a great way to democratise art and remove a layer of elitism that’s often associated with art?

I would agree. I think, in that respect, performance is such a powerful medium. I think that a gallery space offers a different experience of art that is also valid. 

You’ve also spoken about how being based in Gqeberha is challenging regarding displaying and exhibiting your work. What are some of the most surprising reactions or feedback you’ve received from the public?

Only because the network of galleries and exhibition spaces here (Gqeberha) is comparatively smaller than that of a Cape Town or a Johannesburg. However, I don’t necessarily see this in a negative light. Reactions to performances and interventions vary so much – the only consistent reaction from public spaces is a bit of confusion. In defence of this, when I am performing I am probably like 8ft tall and painted – I am incongruous with the rest of the space.

I think there are often very reductive conversations about what constitutes art, particularly fine art. And with avant-garde work, it can often be dismissed as gimmicky and costume-y. What’s your take on these kinds of discussions?

I am not too concerned. I think my role within these discussions is to ‘do’ rather than ‘say’. I think of Andy Warhol’s, “Don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”

You also create work that’s worn / “performed” by other people- what do you learn from your work when it’s presented a little more objectively? Does the meaning of the work shift for you when it’s presented this way?

Yes, of course. The meaning of the work is partially informed by the means used to create it. Many performance artists describe the audience as honorary performers - their reactions to the art are sometimes equally as performative and revealing as the work of the initial performer. I have involved other people in a more tangible way in some of my work – through body painting, dress and performance. Performance art always expands to outside of the initial performer – the boundaries are harder to define. It felt like a natural progression to involve other bodies in some works.

In somewhat of the same way that humour is used in some writing to disarm a reader and perhaps make the thought-provoking elements of a story that much more impactful, would you say that the immediate “pageantry” and “beauty” of your pieces are used as similar devices? Because the more you learn about your pieces and how they come about, the beauty of it is quickly replaced with a sense of existential horror.

I don’t have an ulterior motive. There is an amount of beauty and of ugliness in every work of art – to me, they don’t exist in competition with one another. The queer aesthetics that inform my understanding of beauty - flamboyance, drag culture, nature (which I would consider a queer aesthetic) - all have a sense of grit and roughness to them as well. I think beauty in art can be functional and can serve to entice engagement with uncomfortable themes – but I don’t think it only exists for this purpose. I think the beauty already exists within the subject matter, alongside the grit and ugliness – the work needs both.

Has your process of creating your headpieces evolved? Or are you still taking walks with a pair and scissors and a bucket, and collecting whatever catches your eye?

Haha, yes, my process has evolved and changed quite a bit over the years. I am still a collector, but my works are not informed by this. Back then I described my process as reactive, like “I see something interesting or pretty and I want to wear it on my head”. There is a really interesting, long-standing relationship between gender and sexuality and ‘dressing up’ and I was using my art to project and protect my queerness. There is such a range of complexities around queer identity. I’m a lot more conscious of my process now and why I decide to use or exclude found objects in each work.

In an interview with Bubblegum Club, you said: “I feel my creativity blindly guiding me through the artistic process and only after the artwork is complete does the work’s message reveal itself to me”. 

What does it feel like to have that kind of trust and confidence in your innate creativity?

I still work intuitively and instinctively, but I am in a space now where I have freedom to articulate the queerness of my work. I was 18 years old when I did that particular interview, my context was very different. For a long time I felt pressure to avoid acknowledging the queerness of my art and as a result the descriptions of my process and intentions from a few years ago sound incomplete and shallow – probably because those descriptions were actively excluding a huge part of the narrative and history of my work. I would not describe my process in the same way today. I paint intuitively and freely. I give the materiality of each piece a certain amount of intentional influence over my creative process. There is intention behind each endeavour.

Self-Portrait at Home (2021)

What was it like working with Rich Mnisi? And can you tell us a little bit more about that project and what your brief was? 

There is a long-standing relationship between the world of fashion and queer art and drag. Lypsynka’s performance at the 1992 Mugler Spring/Summer show, Sasha Velour’s performance at Opening Ceremony Spring/Summer in 2019 and Leigh Bowery’s infamous runway stunts and fashion-meets-art pieces come to mind. Clothing has a powerful significance to how identity is articulated or restricted. I had appreciated Rich Mnisi from afar for a long time – his embrace of fashion outside of a strict gender binary. There was a strong sense of trust and respect within the collaboration – I had an understanding of the collection and of what the team envisioned my role to be – but my contribution was completely my own. My performance is quick, but incongruous with the rest of the film (Rich Mnisi JAMES FW22) - it signifies as the bridge between the collection exhibited in the film and the collection to come. 

Luke Rudman in Rich Mnisi’s JAMES FW22

What can you tell us about any future projects you are working on at the moment?

I am looking forward to attending and presenting at the International Arts in Society conference in Zaragoza, in July (2022).

Lastly- how do you envision your legacy as an artist and performer?

I don’t create with the hope of my impact being immortal. I want my work to be where my feet are.

Be sure to follow Luke Rudman on Instagram

Interview by Gary Hartley

This publication was made possible with the support of the Other Foundation. The views  expressed herein do not necessarily represent those of the Other Foundation.