I will never get over the fact of how awesome it is when African artists go kind of the same way as Picasso did after seeing African tribal art for the first time, often not knowing, but farther: the world, and art in particular, collapses in an inception-like moment of cultural exchanges. Mozambican artist Malangatana Ngwenya’s works are uber Guernica of the mystical plane, way more elaborate takes on our world and the others than any European artist could ever imagine. He’s one of those that I would buy everything by if I had the means: but, let’s face it, the possession of art is also such a European concept, and can’t have anything to do with a conversation on art in its purest forms. The painter of the communal limbo above and beyond, Malangatana was a prophetic figure of the calibre of Alain Mabanckou. And while I’m still waiting for the latter to receive a Nobel prize, Malangatana has, however, passed away. And there are no ways to penetrate the mass conscious for artists, anyway: quite sadly.