TURNING TIDES
“I’ve not yet found the perfect shade of green,” sighs Seychellois artist George Camille.
He’s lamenting his never-ending quest to replicate the jungle and its fresh and fertile hues. From the window of his studio, the painter peers through wire-rimmed spectacles at the palette he’s spent a lifetime attempting to recreate: mosses that sour like pickles, ferns as zingy as lime zest and palms more outrageous than the plumes of a parakeet.
A slender man, whose thought-ruffled brow is softened by a haze of wispy curls, George is one of the country’s few native artists. His studio, on the island of Mahé, is filled with canvases depicting snapshots of local life: a man clutching a bunch of bananas; fresh fish for sale in the market; the contours of a prized coco de mer seed, as seductive as a voluptuous woman’s curves.
“I started with these subjects, because that’s what tourists wanted,” he shrugs, pulling out some of his early canvases. “These days I prefer to get to the core of what’s happening in the Seychelles right now.”
Originally colonised only by drifting coconuts, these Indian Ocean islands were first sighted by explorers in the 16th century and settled 200 years later. Raided by pirates, populated by enslaved Africans, Indians and Malays, and tossed between French and British rule, the Seychelles finally gained independence in 1976. A relatively young country, its culture has always been difficult to pinpoint.
Not until recently has a distinct Creole identity taken shape. And last year’s election of the more liberal Linyon Demokratik Seselwa coalition government — after 43 years of autocratic, socialist rule — signifies a welcome wind of change.
“There’s a different energy,” nods George. “Everything
