Artists Deserve Applause, Not Eulogy

Mar 7 , 2026. By Blen Hailu ( Blen Hailu (blenmahi12@gmail.com) studied marketing, management and law. She works in communications and digital content creation, with a focus on human rights, equity and youth engagement.  )

At Addis House of Culture, inside the National Palace on Yohannes St., a new monthly film club opens with a quiet evening of wine, finger food and films. The cool air, old cars in the courtyard, diplomats and artists in the room create a space for reflection rather than spectacle. The first screening, “An Owl, a Garden & the Writer,” by Sara Dowlatabadi, keeps the camera in a family garden outside Tehran, Iran, where domestic life, creative work and political pressure intersect. The film’s focus on routine and memory blurs fiction and lived experience rather than staging a heroic narrative. Writes, Blen Hailu (blenmahi12@gmail.con) studied marketing, management and law. She works in communications and digital con-tent creation, with a focus on human rights, equity and youth engagement.

From the moment I approached the gate of Addis House of Culture, on Yohannes St., inside the National Palace, for the grand opening of a monthly film membership club, it felt different. The air felt cooler inside the compound, the city noise dropped away, and a few old cars stood in the courtyard. Even before entering, I felt I had stepped into a place meant for quiet reflection and the pleasure of watching a film.

Inside, the welcome was simple but careful. Guests were offered wine and finger food, served by servers in uniform who moved quietly through the room. Standing with a glass in hand, surrounded by diplomats, artists and fellow film enthusiasts, it became clear the gathering was about much more than a screening.

The first film on the program was “An Owl, a Garden & the Writer,” a documentary by Sara Dolatabadi about her father, the celebrated Iranian novelist Mahmoud Dowlatabadi. Rather than historical drama or overt political narrative, the film draws viewers into a private setting. A family garden outside Tehran, the domestic sphere, creative work, and the pressure of political reality intersect. Through scenes of conversation, memory, and quiet observation, the film blurs the line between fiction and lived experience. It moves between past and present, words written and lives lived, tracing the rhythm of a writer’s routine alongside the unseen costs borne by his family.

The result is not a heroic portrait but a layered one, in which the work, the history around it, and the private sacrifices sit in tension. One of the film’s most resonant passages comes when Dowlatabadi reflects on regret. He speaks plainly about years consumed by writing and survival, and about how much of his children’s lives he missed. He recalls not remembering their first days of school. The honesty is unsentimental but heavy.

In the room that night, the stillness that followed his words made the audience feel the price of ambition and endurance, and how often others pay it.

After the lights came up, the evening shifted into a question-and-answer session. Dolatabadi answered questions about her process, memory, and the responsibility of filming a story so close to home. Members of the audience did not confine themselves to technical questions. Some shared their perceptions of Iran, speaking of what the country had meant to them at different moments in their own lives. Listening to these voices, it was clear that cinema, when given the right frame, becomes a bridge not only between countries but between individual histories.

How often do we tell such stories about our artists, thinkers, and cultural figures?

Ethiopia has a long list of writers, musicians, filmmakers, actors, and other creative minds whose work has shaped how the country sees itself. Their names are familiar as their songs, films, lines of dialogue, and passages of prose circulate widely. Yet the personal histories behind that work remain thinly recorded. We celebrate their output but rarely stop to ask who they were beyond the stage, the studio, or the page.

There is a tendency to turn artists into myths while also overlooking them in practical terms. Recognition often comes late, shaped by nostalgia or loss rather than close attention during their lifetimes. This pattern feels particularly strong. Artists struggle for visibility, institutional backing, and economic security. They may be admired, yet that admiration does not always become sustained engagement, documentation, or material support. When they die, tributes appear, retrospectives are organised, and their importance is reaffirmed. What remains missing is a long-term commitment to preserving their stories while they are still here to tell them.

Cinema and other art forms can help close that gap. Documentary films, biographies, and archival projects can reveal sides of cultural figures that public acclaim does not capture. These works do more than praise. They place artists in context, showing the doubts and pressures that accompany achievement. By presenting artists as full people rather than symbols, such narratives invite empathy and continuity.

The screening of “An Owl” clearly illustrated this. The film does not present Dowlatabadi as an untouchable icon. It lets him appear as a father and a man negotiating time, politics, and relationships. That approach is instructive. It showed that documenting the lives of artists does not weaken their standing. It deepens it.

Ethiopian cinema, which has been growing and gaining more international attention, has only started to move in this direction. There is no shortage of stories. Modern Ethiopian cultural history is full of figures whose lives intersect with periods of political change, social tension, and artistic experimentation. Their paths contain conflict, resilience, and imagination, the elements that draw audiences. Yet only a small number of works focus on the personal journeys of Ethiopian artists, especially while these individuals are still alive and able to shape how they are seen.

Building such films is not only about art. It is also about memory. When stories are not recorded, they fade. Oral histories vanish, archives stay thin, and later generations inherit a patchy picture of the people who helped form their cultural landscape. Investment in films, books, exhibitions, and multimedia projects that document artists’ lives could help Ethiopia build a more detailed and self-aware cultural record.

This also means shifting attention from memorials after death to recognition in the present. Celebrating artists while they are alive carries a different weight. Serious documentation, dialogue, and visibility can offer validation and support while they are still working. It signals that creative lives matter now, not only in retrospect. It also tells younger artists that their paths, with all their risks and uncertainties, are seen and valued.

The Club is positioned to contribute to this shift in modest but meaningful ways. Its program continues as a recurring event on the first Thursday of each month organised by Habeshaview a multi-faceted media, entertainment and advanced technology company. The screening on March 5, 2026, adds another layer to the conversation. The selected film, "Hirut: Who Is Her Father?", occupies a foundational place in Ethiopian cinema. Produced in 1964, it is known as the first local black-and-white 35mm feature film.

Decades later, the film was digitised and reintroduced to contemporary audiences. Its return to the screen now is more than an exercise in nostalgia. It is a reminder that cultural memory does not maintain itself. Films decay, formats change, and without deliberate effort, works can quietly disappear from view. By screening a restored classic alongside contemporary international documentaries, the Club draws a line between preservation and discovery, between honouring the past and examining the present.

What began as an evening of wine, quiet hospitality, and a carefully chosen film ended as a reflection on how societies choose to remember their artists, and when. And if we honour those who shape our cultural life, we will need not only to celebrate their work but to record their lives, patiently and while it still can.

PUBLISHED ON Mar 07,2026 [ VOL 26 , NO 1349]