Quiet Radicalism: Ruschka du Toit on Flowers, Memory, and Transformation

I had the pleasure of speaking with Cape Town based artist Ruschka du Toit about her evocative ink paintings of flowers. Her work is at once quiet and charged, unfolding as a meditation on memory, sentiment, and the fragile beauty of everyday life. In our conversation, we explored flowers as ciphers of emotion, tenderness and endurance, play as a guiding principle, and the delicate balance between beauty and rupture that lies at the heart of her practice.

Two Homes, 2025, Acrylic ink on canvas, 29 x 45.5 cm

Let's start at the beginning. When did you first sense that flowers and their changing states could hold so much of what you were experiencing personally?

I love that question. I think the story that has always stayed with me goes back to my childhood. We had this painting of cosmos flowers, one of those that seemed to be in many South African homes. It fascinated me, not because it was flowers, but because of the way a few brushstrokes could also be a petal. That realization, that a few placed marks could represent something so alive and make me feel something, completely captivated me. It’s a memory I often return to, a reminder of how a simple mark or brushstroke can evoke a feeling. Later, when I started reading about the language of flowers and how in Victorian times they carried coded messages, I found it fascinating. But even beyond history, I think every person has a flower that holds meaning for them. The way a certain flower can trigger a memory, a person, a moment. That personal symbolism moves me deeply.

I see that same symbolism present in your titles. What is your process for naming the works?

I don’t plan titles in advance but I keep a list of words and thoughts in my notes app. Once a work has settled I might refer to these notes or do a bit of writing about the specific work and so the title will reveal itself. A work is not complete until it has been named. I think of it as the note that accompanies the bouquet. I’ve had so many moments where people connect as much with the words as with the work itself. 

When I engage with these works, they feel slower and more abstract. They allow you to get lost in them, as though they’re inviting you into their journey.

That makes sense. My work has shifted a lot in the last year as I have transitioned to a more full time art practice. The preparation is more intense, so while the final gestures may appear fluid and quick, there’s a deeper foundation underneath. There are a lot of drawings, studies and colour tests that precede a painting and I wonder if that is what you are sensing. 

Eden, 2025, Acrylic ink on canvas, 59 x 84 cm

Although your process is fluid, do you ever revisit works?

Absolutely. With Eden, I went back and experimented with different techniques. The same with Healing Fantasy. I was testing how varying amounts of water and drying time could alter the outcome. It felt liberating because I wasn’t thinking, “I’m making a painting.” I was thinking, “I’m playing, I’m learning, I’m getting to know my medium.” Play, freedom, curiosity, those are central to my practice. One of my mottos is: don’t lose the looseness.

You’ve spoken about tulips as unexpected companions. What did their presence teach you about tenderness or endurance?

That’s such a specific memory. A friend gave me tulips during a really difficult time. I didn’t even feel like painting, but when I walked into the studio and saw them, I immediately wanted to paint them. Their form and shape, the way they hung, the fragility of the petals falling when I moved the vase…it all struck me. They seemed to be holding on for dear life, and that vulnerability spoke to me. It’s a good example of how sometimes a flower or plant seems to embody something larger, almost like it’s speaking to me.

Pink Tulips in Studio, 2025 © The Artist

Many of these works feel autobiographical. Are you archiving memories, or creating something new?

Both. I love that you used the word “archiving.” A part of my practice I don’t usually share is that I’ve started keeping a small sketchbook where I paint flowers I encounter on walks. I record the date and location, trying to capture them faithfully. It’s incredibly satisfying, like a quiet documentation of my life. For me, it ties to legacy. These are traces of where I’ve been, what I’ve seen. That process feels deeply meditative. The work in ‘Visiting Hours’ is less about documenting and more about the moment, trusting the ground work I have done, trusting my intuition, solving problems as they arise. And then things emerge as I live with the works in my studio. They become their own thing and sometimes tell me what they are in spite of my own ideas about them.

Would you say the process is also cathartic?

Definitely. Making paintings as a way of expression is deeply cathartic and satisfying. It’s abstract, so it’s hard to explain, but for me it’s more about feeling than representation. It’s intimate, even private, and yet essential to my expression.

Healing Fantasy (After), 2025, Acrylic ink on canvas, 45 x 24.5 cm

Usually decay is associated with heaviness, yet in your work it becomes metamorphosis. How do you hold both beauty and rupture within the same gesture?

For me, it’s important that my work speaks to both, because the beauty of life lies in that tension. I don’t resist darkness. Moving through it makes the return to color and beauty more vivid. Ignoring that tension would be a disservice to myself. Light and dark draw their significance from one another. I believe light always wins, but acknowledging darkness allows space for transformation.

Looking at your palette, it shifts between softer tones, darker moods, and sudden moments of light. Do these choices trace emotions, or are they more intuitive?

They’re intuitive, though I do track them. If I discover a color I love, I’ll jot down how I mixed it. I move through phases with color. Pink, for instance, has been frustrating…it always risks turning into purple, which I dislike. But then I realized my use of pink is about more than aesthetics. It carries cultural associations around femininity and innocence. I enjoy recontextualizing that, challenging it.

Exploratory Sketches, 2025 © The Artist

Do you see flowers themselves as fragile, or more the impressions they leave in your painting?

I don’t see them as fragile. I see them as quietly strong. They don’t demand attention, but they persist. In my work, flowers act as vessels for feeling, symbols of transformation, and examples of radical resilience.

Let’s expand on that idea of quiet radicalism.

On a walk, you’ll find the tiniest flower, unreal in its beauty, but easy to miss if you’re not looking. Nature doesn’t need us to acknowledge its beauty for it to be true, it just is.

Exploratory Notes, 2025 © The Artist

That’s a lovely sentiment, finding beauty in fleeting moments. Is it important for you to highlight the transience of beauty?

Yes. Seeing beauty in the simplest things, there’s something divine in it. It's the face of God in a flower. For me, there’s a spiritual depth in paying attention to what’s around us, ordinary yet profound. Flowers can take on the role of a mentor, a friend, a therapist, even a hug. That’s the connection I’m after.

 I think we’re all seeking that sense of connection. And your work is a beautiful invitation not only to look at flowers differently, but to see ourselves with the same quiet attention. Thank you.

Crush, 2025, Acrylic ink on canvas, 15 x 20.5 cm