Threaded Truths: Mahube Diseko Is Making Memory Tangible
Interview by Anastatia Nkhuna
The first time I encountered Mahube Diseko’s work, it felt like stumbling into a dream stitched from memory and longing. A Johannesburg-based fine artist and cultural worker, Mahube moves between the textures of film, culture, history, race, and gender like someone weaving a map of the self. Her practice is tender, deeply conceptual, and anchored in the politics of remembrance.
I met her voice before I met her through a soft sculpture titled I Miss Myself the Most, part of a group show at Stevenson Gallery. The phrase, delicately threaded onto a pair of underwear, was less a cry and more a whisper, a private confession made public. It captured the essence of her work: quiet yet piercing, emotional yet analytical, where memory slips between opacity, imagination, and fantasy.
Please introduce yourself and tell me how your Fine Arts degree from the University of Witwatersrand influenced and shaped your artistic approach and creative practice?
I’m Mahube Diseko, born, raised, and based in Joburg. My roots run deep here. I’m a visual artist and cultural worker, and honestly, I always get a bit nervous when asked to describe myself. But if I had to sum it up: I’m curious. I ask a lot of questions and rarely have all the answers and that’s kind of the point.
My work explores identity, sexuality, grief, and the human experience. I’m drawn to reflection, to the why behind how we behave, feel, and move through the world. I studied sociology, so it makes sense that my art follows those same threads.
Right now, my practice is very much about observing and feeling about using art as a mirror, and sometimes a megaphone.
I think the conversation around whether fine arts degrees are valuable is an important one. For me, all education has value, you take from it what you need. Studying art wasn’t about becoming a classically trained artist, but about giving myself structure, tools, and a deeper understanding of the work I wanted to make.
I started out as more of a hobbyist, but going to university helped me take my practice seriously and encouraged others, like my parents, to see it as valid too. It pushed me to experiment, to fail, to try again. I was exposed to new mediums and ideas, learned to approach research critically, and gained clarity around why I create and what purpose it serves.
It also demystified the idea of being an artist. I didn’t grow up around professional visual artists, so seeing it modeled through educators, peers, and the environment made the idea of an art career real for me. More than anything, it taught me that instinct alone isn’t enough. Studying gave me the tools to build something lasting.
The question on everyone’s mind - What led you to choose underwear as the canvas for your pieces, and how does it contribute to the meaning of the message?
I often find it difficult to explain exactly where my ideas come from. I usually start with a clear vision. I can see what I want to make, and the understanding of why often comes much later. Even when I feel unsure, some part of me always knows what I’m doing.
When I started working with underwear as a canvas, I knew I wanted to use text as a medium. I was experiencing things I couldn’t quite express visually, and words felt like the right entry point. But I didn’t want to do it in a way that felt overdone like simply writing on canvas or using neon signage. I wanted something that felt personal and original.
Underwear, for me, became the perfect material. It carries connotations of intimacy, privacy, vulnerability, qualities I associate with how I want people to approach my work: with sensitivity, curiosity, and respect. Not everyone sees your underwear, just like not everyone gets access to your innermost thoughts. In this work, I’m inviting people into a deeply personal space. Even when I’m speaking to broader themes, it always begins with my own lived experience.
I see my practice as an act of confession, of emotional exposure. And I love seeing how people interpret the pieces, some think it’s protest work, others read it entirely differently. That openness to interpretation is part of what excites me. I’m still learning through the process too. Still exploring what it means to use such a charged, everyday object as a site for storytelling.
The phrases you thread on your canvas are bold and evocative. What was happening at the time when you thought about “I miss myself the most” ?
When I created I Miss Myself the Most, I was moving through my first real and immediate experience of grief. It was intense and life-altering. I felt like I had stepped into an entirely new reality, one that I didn’t recognize, and I didn’t quite recognize myself either.
The work became a meditation on how grief and hardship can reshape you; mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I felt like I had lost parts of myself in that process – my joy, my spark, my essence. I always say, and it might sound dramatic, but I felt like I died in some way. Not physically, of course, but something inside me changed forever. I longed to reconnect with the version of myself I once knew the energy I used to carry. That loss became the heart of the work.
I think my art is both catharsis and commentary. It always begins from something personal, but somewhere along the way, I realize the experience isn’t just mine. There’s something universal in it – something shared. Our personal stories are often reflections of larger, collective experiences. That’s what I find powerful: how the individual and the social are always in conversation.
Can you share any insights into your creative process when developing such deeply personal pieces?
It might sound simple or even obvious, but my process really begins with a lot of thinking. I’m a girl who ponders. I sit with ideas for a long time – thinking, reflecting, and having conversations with myself and others. My work is deeply reflective, and often confrontational. I’m usually unpacking experiences I may not have fully resolved, which makes creating both powerful and emotionally demanding.
I have to be in a mental space that feels safe where I can allow myself to be vulnerable. Choosing what to explore in my work often comes with internal conflict. Some of the stories I tell involve others – people who are still present in my life – which adds another layer of tension. It’s like saying: “Don’t date a writer, they’ll write about you.” The same goes for artists. There are moments when I pull back, deciding not to share something because I’m not ready, or the story isn’t fully mine to tell.
When I do create, I like to ground myself in ritual. I always have music playing. Sometimes I have a film or series running in the background. It helps me set the mood, the intention, the energy I want to carry through the work. That ritual helps anchor me. Writers of all kinds inspire me deeply, and I think of my art-making as a kind of visual writing – confessional, deliberate, and always tethered to feeling.
How have you found the business of art - in selling your art to people that resonate with your creativity what lessons have you learnt so far?
You know what’s interesting? I’ve experienced the art world from both sides , creating as an artist and working behind the scenes in the industry. That dual perspective has taught me so much about the business of art, especially the importance of building and nurturing a market.
For me, it’s essential that the people who resonate with my work can actually access it whether they’re buying a sculpture or a more affordable print. I think creating a range of offerings is a powerful way to include different audiences. Everyone deserves the chance to collect art that speaks to them, in a way that fits within their reality.
I’ve been lucky so far, the people who’ve invested in my work are often those who see themselves in it, especially young Black women. That means so much to me because they’re exactly who I’m speaking to. Still, it’s tricky. As an emerging artist, you don’t always have full control. Yes, you can say no to things, but you also need to eat. That tension is real. So it becomes about maintaining your integrity while staying afloat.
There’s still so much I want to learn about the business side of things. The art world can feel layered and overwhelming. There are a lot of unspoken rules and gatekeeping. But I’m curious, and I’m committed to figuring it out as I grow.
What advice do you have for someone who is afraid to start?
Just start.
I remember wasting so much time being insecure, overthinking, second-guessing myself. I sat on the idea for one of my series for almost a year before I ever put anything out. I thought it was silly. I had no idea how transformative it would end up being.
There’s no reward in perfectionism. Nothing comes from not starting. You have to begin, then learn along the way what’s working, what needs shifting and what feels right.
Be patient with yourself. Trust yourself. If you don’t, no one else will. You’ll always be your own toughest critic, but sometimes you’ve got to quiet that voice, the one telling you it’s not good enough and choose bravery instead.
