a.magazine’s African Interview Series

Lily Yeh is an artist and cultural activist based in the U.S. city of Philadelphia, where she is well-known for enlivening impoverished neighborhoods through collaborative art projects. She co-founded North Philadelphia’s Village of Arts and Humanities, which began with the transformation of an abandoned lot and grew to include parks, gardens, art classes, reclaimed buildings, performances, murals, and mosaics. Yeh has called The Village “a living piece of sculpture.”

She first brought her vision of transformative public art to Africa in 1994, working in the Korogocho section of Nairobi. [The 150,000 residents of Korogocho reside near, and some of them scavenge, a large garbage dump.] Nine years later (2003), Yeh spearheaded the Rwanda Healing Project, which enlisted residents of Gisenyi, Rwanda, to transform a mass grave and survivor’s village through public art. They eventually created a reliquary for the bones of those killed in the 1994 genocide.

Born in China and raised in Taiwan, Ms. Yeh originally trained as a painter. She received her MFA in Painting from the University of Pennsylvania and taught art for 30 years at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia.

Which region of Africa did you visit initially, and what were your first impressions?

The place I visited first was Kenya, in 1993. I really began working in Nairobi in early 1994. My first impression of Kenya was ‘it’s fabulous’—my first month there I traveled to national parks, went on safari, hung out with expatriates. I saw a totally different side of life in Kenya than the Kenyan poor.

Then in 1994, I met with Father Alex [Zanotelli] who works with the poor and lives in the slum Korogocho. I visited him there, and it was powerful to witness what he has done with his life. He established a church there called the St. John’s Catholic Church, and he helped the poor to recycle trash and organized the people who recycled in Korogocho, so that they could become a force, rather than working individually. They also gathered people who go through the trash pile to provide them with education for one year, and find families for them so they could be integrated into society. I was very moved by his work, so I decided to join him and work in Korogocho.

My first impression of Korogocho was —such violence, such poverty, such destitution, how much of a struggle it was to live just one day there. But at the same time, I could see the power of art while working in those places. The lessons one learns while in contact with people there are profound, beyond words. We see so much more than one can give.

Please describe Korogocho, how you first became aware of it, and your work there.

The main street is very narrow. Both sides of the street are packed with stalls, clothes, shoes, cooking utensils, all kinds of mechanical parts, food and fish and vegetables, you name it. It’s a vital business area, but very crowded, especially in the morning and afternoon when people go and come back from work. If you veer from the main street, it’s even more narrow—you can stretch your hands from side to side and touch both sides of the street. The structures are of mud and bamboo or recycled materials: posts, rusted metal sheets, thick plastic bags, cardboard pieces. So many different parts are cobbled together—there’s almost an artists’ sensibility to it. People cook right on the street. You fry fish, you bake bread, you have your animals, it’s all on the street— you sew, you bake corn, whatever. On the other hand, the poverty is violent. I remember going into one of the residential areas [of Korogocho] and literally feeling like I was descending into the bowels of the earth. Walking from the main road, you veer into the intestine-like streets, no toilets but a waterway right in the center, a little shallow area there, where you wash vegetables, you wash clothes—that’s your sink, and the sheltered area, that’s your toilet. People live in very close quarters. In the rainy season, life is very difficult, as you can imagine.

Most of these Kenyans are poor, and they live in a very small area. They have to pay rent for these places, and they can never own land because it belongs to the government. The land will never belong to those people. There were huge issues when I was there about the government attempting to take the land for their own use. My first workshop there became about painting banners.

My art is about transforming individuals and communities. When I first went there, I undertook a transformation project. I’m an artist, so I want to paint or sculpt. In Korogocho it’s hard to find a wall that’s big enough to paint on or not made of different samples of materials. So initially I worked with Father Alex in his churchyard, which was very bare. My first workshop there, I brought the residents to paint— they painted flowers, they painted themselves as angel-like, powerful figures. I took those traditional figures and turned them into big murals, with peace angels, and beautiful floral geometric patterns. I worked with a Kenyan sculptor, Lowry, and we made seven angelic figure sculptures in two months’ time. We totally transformed the church with angels and flowers and patterns and into a place of joy and celebration. That was almost a miracle.

There were a thousand people at the dedication ceremony. It gave outsiders a reason to come to this hellhole to witness how hard people struggled to live and to see the transformation. They included embassy people – German, Swiss, American. The American ambassador personally came and mingled with people and recognized the project. That was the big bang at the beginning.

What was the genesis of the Rwanda Healing Project? What compelled you to begin work in Gisenyi?

The Rwanda Healing Project began in 2004. I attended an international conference in Barcelona, and there I met Jean Bosco Musana Rukirande. He is regional coordinator in Gisenyi for the Red Cross. He talked about the destitution and suffering of the people after the ‘94 genocide. I was very moved by his speech. I guess, deep down, there is a sense of guilt that the world didn’t do anything when the slaughter went on, that I didn’t do anything when the slaughter was on. I thought, now I can do something.

I went to Kigali, and Jean Bosco came to pick me up at the airport. We drove to his hometown at Gisenyi, which is on the border of Congo. He took me to two sites: one was a mass grave of the genocide. The other one was the Survivor’s Village. He told me that both are just heartbreaking. He told me that both needed help. And I wanted to help with the living, of course, but I felt the project was too overwhelming for me. He said, maybe you should start with the memorial first. I realized that if you want to heal, you have to deal with the open wound inside—otherwise the horror, tragedy, and pain will never go away. So I sketched a simple sketch in which I envisioned what the genocide memorial would look like. I made a proposal, and we got the support from the governor. So I came back and developed the sketch into a design.

I felt that I needed an organization as my patron. If I have a staff, I thought, then I can launch a multifaceted project simultaneously— so I started to recruit volunteers. The idea was that in the village, I would work with people in the community. This time I also worked with professionals. I brought them in, and it became a powerful multi-faceted entity. We immediately organized, we trained people in the arts –teachers, volunteers—and we started a children’s creative program. Then we started painting the village.

My way of organizing is to make something beautiful. We sketched on the wall, then anyone who wanted to paint could come and paint. Immediately they saw the change, the possibility, the hope. Colors began to appear in this grey and gloomy village, and we began to see sparks in people’s eyes. And then they began to organize. Right now, after four years, it’s a full-time project involving several hundred people. Jefferson Hospital University [in Philadelphia] is involved. Penn Engineers Without Borders is involved, and a progression of people from all over the states….Maine, Pennsylvania, on and on.

Later, we got funding and sponsored safe water for the whole village of 106 families for a year. We also installed rain water storage tanks for every family. That was the most transformative part because water is life. Before the water project, there was only one pipe for 100 families, and the faucet was old. When they had to shut down to repair it, villagers had to walk two or three miles to get water.

And it goes on. After the water project, a volunteer donated mosquito nets so that [the families] could deal with malaria. We also got donations from friends in Philly, so now every family has a goat. We taught them how to paint, so they painted their dreams, and now more than two-thirds of the houses in the village are all painted. There are automobiles, motorcyles, tents, accordions, goats, and even a mosque. And they’re beautiful.

The residents do have jobs, have a living–to make the village hopeful and sustainable. All of the children wear uniforms in schools, so now some of the women sew uniforms. It’s been going for one year, and now we have twelve people trained. They get contracts from the school for uniforms. They also sell purses; it’s very busy.

A volunteer named Allen Jacobsen brought two machines from Nairobi, brought down a trainer, and helped create a sunflower seed oil production business. They have a building and a team involved, and we work with the government. Now there are sunflowers growing everywhere, and they are producing oil. This is the Rugerero district, and we call it the Survivors’ Village. We’re hoping to make this a model of building community.

Your have written of “the art of turning deficits into resources”. How did this take shape for people who have experienced extreme brutality, such as the residents of Rwanda?

The people in Rwanda are dealing with destruction and the horror of genocide, memory, tragedy, despair, and sadness. When I first went there, the villagers asked me, can you help us to build a bone chamber so we can bury the bones properly underground? At first I thought this was a small project, and I could do this. It turned into a really huge project. We had to get an engineer and contracts. We had to dig into the ground and remove volcanic rock. I found a construction company to help—they happened to be Chinese— the China Road and Bridge Construction Corporation. The manager and director really understood what we were trying to do. His heart was moved. “You’re doing something useful, and I’m willing to help you.” I still have to pay, but it’s much less than a for-profit company would charge. We found all the workers from Rwanda. We leveled the ground and made it very bare. Then we dug into the ground, planted things, and laid the foundation for the wall.

Part the reason I wanted to help build a genocide memorial was that I wanted to bring the concept of beauty into the memorial building. I feel that the most powerful way to be healed is through beauty. Jean Bosco and some of the survivors told me that when they see beauty, they see hope. When we see beauty, we feel hope. The beauty of the memorial is a co-design. I would design something, and they would change it to be appropriate to what they feel is hopeful. They couldn’t wait until it was completely finished. On April 7, 2007, they had 1000 people come to the memorial, and they put the bones inside. They designated this place as the memorial site for the whole Rugerero district. They continue to add people’s bones.

In Gisenyi, how did local traditions blend with or alter the methods you had employed in other settings (such as in Philadelphia)?

I went back in 2007 to mosaic the monument, to complete it. The year before, I had found broken tiles, so I went to Kigali to transport tiles several times with Jean Bosco. I trained ten local people and ten builders. One of them is a mason and he mastered it. He and his crew mastered it—the surface is perfectly smooth. His name is Francois. I told him, it doesn’t need to be so smooth. He said, No, no. This place is going to draw national attention. It has to be perfect. The funny thing is that it was him saying, No, no, no. This is not good enough. Anyway, when we did the mosaic, the whole village turned out. To mosaic is so intense; you have to do it in different layers, and then you have to shine it. If there is any dirt on it, it just looks fussy. We and the villagers were side by side brushing the surface, making it shine. Then they washed it down with water, and then wiped it clean. It’s like layers of massaging. Through that love, sadness, through that beauty, it was created.

We had a celebration. We had a ceremony to give this monument to the government and to the people for safekeeping. The Minister of Family, Youth and Sports, from Kigali, came, as well as the mayor, the representatives, and the survivors. We were there, and twelve international guests were there to witness this event.

What and where are your next projects in Africa?

I go back to Kenya annually. When I went back last year, all of my paintings were gone, but they were replaced by a local artist group, in the streets, so that was OK. Since then I’ve been going back to work with another group, the Boma Rescue Center. The Boma is on the edge of this vast dump in Nairobi. I am hoping to go back to turn this one acre or more of a very big, very bleak-looking playground into a sculpture garden—to show that beauty can exist in desperate places, and in those places it has even more potency and power. It is a profound transformation because the poverty is so violent. If you live there as poor, you are assaulted every day you get up, on all different levels.

In Rwanda, I’m working with the survivors and two universities – Penn, and Temple University Architecture Department, to design a genocide memorial museum. The university is ready, and I am ready. I have part of the funding and still looking for more. Jean Bosco talked to the officials and has the measurements. I said, go to the village and ask what they imagine. When I get there I am going to have some workshops, because I want to preserve and document. With the university students we’re going to hammer out things—there’s going to be a living museum and a genocide memorial museum.

Through your experience in community art projects, have you come to see your artwork as primarily collaborative? Or do you find time to work on personal pieces?

I think my projects are guided by my personal artistic sensitivity and my personal mission, and my particular history and experience. Without me, these projects might not happen, but nothing is mine. It’s driven by artistic vision and the will to carry it out. The whole process is my creative process. I want to redefine my role as an artist. Art is life. It goes to the heart of life. It goes to the depth of the suffering.

My work is what I do with people. My canvases are the broken communities, wherever I can find them, destitute and poor communities in need. It’s a living canvas—people’s stories, what they bring, their imagination, their talent—that’s my color. Those are my mosaic pieces. My work is not in a traditional studio. This is my work.

If you could meet any other African artist — author, painter, sculptor, musician, singer, designer – who would it be? Why?

It is hard for me to answer this. I listen to quite a few musicians and so forth. If you asked me where I would really would love to go, I would really like to visit northern Ghana, where they have those sculptural clay houses, and to the heartland of Mali, where they play music. I cannot say I’d like to meet just one person.