When art returns, who does it belong to?

There is something almost mythic about return. Not just the physical act of coming back but the emotional residue that lingers in the spaces left behind, dust settling into memory, walls holding breath, silence learning to speak. 

The Homecoming exhibition, anchored by the return of the Johannesburg Art Gallery (JAG) collection, is less an event and more a reckoning. It asks: what does it mean for art to come home, and who, exactly, is that home for?

For nearly two years, works by figures such as William Kentridge, Pablo Picasso, Gerard Sekoto, Sabelo Mlangeni and Auguste Rodin travelled across continents; Italy then South Korea, gathering new meanings in foreign air. Now, they sit again in Johannesburg, housed temporarily at the Standard Bank Art Gallery, carrying with them the quiet weight of everywhere they have been.

At the opening, the crowd moved like a tide, curious, reverent, uncertain. People came in their numbers, drawn not only by the prestige of the works but by something more intimate: the promise of recognition or perhaps confrontation. I stood beside a man staring into Kentridge’s Soho in Flooded Room (Drawing from Stereoscope), 1999. His gaze was fixed, almost searching.

I asked him what it made him feel. “If these walls could talk,” he said.

And just like that, everything settled into place. Because that is the exhibition’s undercurrent—not spectacle but voice. Not just what we see but what we imagine these works have witnessed.

Co-curated by Khwezi Gule and Dr Same Mdluli, the exhibition exists in a delicate tension between inheritance and intervention. It is, as Dr Mdluli puts it: “We’ve almost inherited an exhibition that was already curated. Standard Bank stepping in was not like we were starting something entirely new.

“So for us, it was like we became another tour destination but this time on behalf of the city. And also as a corporate citizen that is invested in ensuring that the gallery remains part of the cultural fabric of Johannesburg.”

What emerges here is not just logistics but a kind of custodianship. A holding space.

Yet even within that, there is an awareness of complexity, of the conversations that inevitably follow. As Dr Mdluli reflects: “I feel like we opened a can of worms. Not necessarily in a negative sense, because we’ve always known that there are issues around JAG and around the collection. 

“But I think what’s happening is that people are conflating two things. There is this exhibition, which is being hosted by Standard Bank and then there are the larger issues around the JAG collection itself”.

“And that aspect doesn’t really involve us in that way, it’s something that sits between the city, JAG and civil society. But at the same time, you can’t separate them completely, because people are responding to all of it at once.”

It is this simultaneity, of beauty and burden that gives Homecoming its texture.

From the outside, the exhibition may appear seamless: a collaboration between JAG and Standard Bank, a carefully arranged display. But beneath that surface is a story of urgency and intention. Standard Bank’s involvement, as Dr Mdluli explains, is rooted in a broader civic commitment: “We are part of Jozi My Jozi, which is about lobbying corporates and civil society to be part of the rejuvenation of Johannesburg. 

“So it made sense for us to put our hands up and be part of the solution. And even if it might seem minimal, it does make a difference. Yes, it’s about storing the works but it’s also about making them accessible so that people can actually see them. 

“That’s been a big driver for us, ensuring that art remains accessible and that it continues to be part of the everyday cultural ecosystem of the city.”

Accessibility, here, becomes both a principle and a practice. 

Khwezi Gule traces the journey of the works with quiet precision. Over one hundred artworks. Italy then South Korea to Seoul. Each stop extending the life of the exhibition, each audience adding a new layer of meaning.

“These artworks were touring various cities in Italy and while they were still there, we started getting requests from South Korea – first Gyeongju and then other cities. The last stop was Seoul and that was around September last year when they finally came back to Johannesburg. The return was highly anticipated, not just here but also because of the impression the works had made abroad. People kept asking for more, which is why the exhibition extended beyond its initial loan period. There was quite wide coverage, and they became quite popular in both countries.”

And then, finally, the return.

The timing, he explains, was layered with coincidence and intention: “When the artworks were due to return, it coincided with the G20 summit. The city felt it was a good time to mount an exhibition. At the same time, Standard Bank had vacated their gallery space in the city, so it became available. So it was quite fortuitous that these things came together. 

“The title Homecoming directly references the return of the artworks but it’s also a bit tongue-in-cheek. If we think of Africa as the birthplace of humanity, then everyone coming into Johannesburg for the summit is, in a sense, coming home.”

This framing stretches the idea of home beyond geography. It becomes philosophical, even poetic.

Walking through the exhibition, that philosophy meets history. European classical works hang alongside African masters, their coexistence both harmonious and uneasy. 

The collection itself reflects this layered past, something Gule speaks to with careful clarity: “The foundation collection was established through donations by the Randlords, people whose wealth came from gold mining. 

“Figures like Sir Lionel Phillips and Lady Florence Phillips. They decided that the foundation collection should consist of 17th-century Dutch paintings, which already tells you something about their social attitudes. They preferred works that had an established reputation rather than what was contemporary at the time. And as you move through the history of the collection, you start to see how it reflects different stages in Johannesburg and South Africa more broadly.”

He continues, drawing attention to the absences as much as the inclusions: “For a long time, traditional African art was not collected. It was seen as ‘tribal artifacts’ rather than art worthy of a museum. It’s only much later, for instance with the purchase of the 114 headrests in 1987, that you start to see a shift. That reflects changing attitudes not just globally, but locally as well, towards recognising African art as art.”

These shifts are not just historical footnotes. They shape how the exhibition is received today.

And reception, as both curators suggest, is deeply personal.

Dr Mdluli resists prescribing meaning, “We can’t determine how people will relate to the work. Some people might walk in and feel completely disconnected and that’s okay. Others might find something deeply personal in it. It depends on where you come from, your background, what informs your perspective. That’s the beauty of art, you never know how one person and the next will respond to the same object.”

Instead, the exhibition leans into the idea of reclamation, not as a fixed outcome but as an open process, “We speak about return in the sense of reclamation. Yes, the collection belongs to the people of the city but how do we make people feel that sense of ownership? 

“Not just as viewers being told what to see but as participants who can find their own points of connection, their own sense of relatability and representation. It’s about allowing people to reclaim what these artworks mean to them.”

Gule echoes this emphasis on engagement, urging visitors to slow down. 

“I would like people to sit with the artworks. Not just walk through but to spend time, to look more closely. And even to come back more than once, because artworks reveal themselves over time. And also, to not feel intimidated. You don’t need to have studied art. What you bring, your own experiences, your own visual language is valid. Even if you don’t understand something immediately, give it time. Somehow, it finds you.”

And perhaps that is where the exhibition’s quiet power lies, in that act of finding.

Back at the opening, I kept thinking about that man’s words: if these walls could talk. What would they say?

Would William Kentridge’s figures speak of Johannesburg’s shifting landscapes? Would Pablo Picasso’s forms recall the fractures of modernity? Would Gerard Sekoto’s scenes echo exile and return? Would Sabelo Mlangeni whisper intimacy into the space? Would Auguste Rodin carry the weight of bodies shaped by time?

Or would they speak of the journeys, the crates, the customs halls, the unfamiliar light of distant galleries?

Perhaps they would say all of it. Or perhaps they would remain silent, leaving us to do the work of listening.