Art Alive: The Heartbeat of Benoni’s Art Scene

Posted by Sonette

There’s a place in Benoni that smells like turpentine, soup, and soul. You probably wouldn’t notice it driving by, a small little art school tucked into an unassuming street. No neon signs. No flashing lights. Just a humble building with big, creative energy humming inside it.  

That’s Art Alive.  

And if you know, you know.  

For me, it’s not just an art school. It’s not just a gallery. It’s the place that cracked me wide open as an artist. It’s the place that lit the match.  There’s something about this exhibition that feels like coming home. Maybe it’s the crackling bonfires, or the classical music floating through the winter air... or maybe it’s the fact that for fifteen years, Art Alive has been the quiet heartbeat of Benoni’s art community. 

The 15th year this magical gathering has existed. Fifteen years of soup-filled cups, glowing bonfires, and winter evenings that somehow feel warmer than summer. Fifteen years of stories told through colour, music, and laughter. Fifteen years of Elaine Marx, the guiding compass holding space for artists to rise.  

I remember my first ever exhibition there, nerves gnawing at my stomach, hands shaking as I hung up my piece with wonky confidence. The room felt massive, and I felt microscopic. But somehow, in the flicker of gallery lights and fire pits, surrounded by strangers sipping wine and gazing at brushstrokes, I found something solid inside myself.  And that fire? It’s still burning.  

This year marks my 11th Art Alive Exhibition.  Art Alive taught me that art doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful. It can be quiet. Slow. Honest. It can show up in the middle of winter and still bloom.  

So if you ever wonder where my journey began. If you ever ask where Messy Masterpieces truly found its heart. It’s right there. In that little school. Among firelight, friends, and that first taste of courage.  

I’ll be there, not just with a painting on the wall, but with a heart full of gratitude and fingers probably stained in something vibrant.  

To fifteen years. To all the stories whispered between the walls. And to the ones we’ve yet to paint.  

With paint under my nails and a whole lot of pride, 

Sonette