Olivia Mae Pendergast USA, b. 1970

Olivia Mae Pendergast's work is a fascinating and sensual hieroglyph that, paradoxically, is read with closed eyes. It is a labyrinth, a crossroads of cultures where the only conflict, the only difficulty, is to stop admiring each of her paintings where voices intertwine, the symphony of Nairobi, the colors of the world, and countless references to the artistic world from which she comes. Homages, songs, and nods to artists who wanted to break norms to become a canon (Picasso); who obsessively escaped civilization in search of the essence of life (Gauguin); or who made essence and minimalism their only means of expression (Modigliani). Primitivism, the 'simple' strokes of African masks left such a profound mark on many of these artists that they changed the history of contemporary art. Japanese influence is also present. Pendergast takes the opposite path; in fact, she walks the streets of Nairobi to portray, in her own way, accompanied by her mentors, the aura of humble people, pedestrians, and kids flying on their skateboards.
Far from emulating the great tradition of European religious painting, the artist embraces a different, devastating, and mundane spirituality: we all have a special aura, just as we have a life and will encounter death. It is a halo that does not resemble the scenes of saints and martyrs in, for example, Zurbarán or Vermeer, but rather sings to everyday heroes. Those whom David Bowie sings about: "We can be heroes, just for one day." Olivia's paintings are a song, a melody to humanity, to the dignity that each person can be a Garden of the Hesperides, a galaxy filled with moons, stars, and comets, a botanical universe teeming with flowers and insects.
Joseph Beuys proclaimed that 'every person is an artist.' And Olivia Mae Pendergast states that every person can be magical in their own way, with that aura, that soul she visualizes for the viewer, something that is appreciated. That soul elongates in the always stylized figures, those necks, those endless fingers, as if about to disappear, as if El Greco had given her lessons or advice or some trick to season her work with that spirituality.
The American artist leaves nothing to chance, she doesn't paint aimlessly, she cares deeply about the gaze and every detail, but also about the background, the surroundings, the air breathed by the subject, and the color that frames the energy or languor of the woman posing proudly for the photo, which will later become a drawing, then a sketch, and then a painting. Pastel colors, slightly spicy, with flavors that are somewhat electric. Background tones that are like brilliant spices: anise, mustard, dried orange peel, fresh ginger, mint, and tarragon. Those backgrounds close a circle that begins with the artist's humility, asking neighbors and passersby if she can photograph them. Just like Basquiat did, just like Kehinde Wiley, the American painter who has reached the pinnacle of African-American painting with the permission of Winslow Homer, Kerry James Marshall, or Kara Walker. Life, the enchantment offered to us in every moment, joy, it's out there on the street. The joy that people carry attached to the soles of their flip-flops or sneakers. The joy of a smile beneath a cap.
Yes, we reaffirm it, Pendergast's work is an attractive and delicate hieroglyph that is read with closed eyes. The question is whether it has music or is silent, although silence itself is a particular sonority. Perhaps the solution to the question lies somewhere between stillness and an orchestra, like a pianist providing the soundtrack to a silent film. The figures, which after looking at them for so long seem like family, are silent but invite departure, introspection, reading, sitting down, and getting lost in the details, in the corners of the canvas that are finished but do not seem so, happily incomplete because they still have a life ahead.

Felip Vivanco
Art critic
La Vanguardia, Barcelona, Spain