Roni Zulu shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Hi Roni, thank you so much for joining us today. We’re thrilled to learn more about your journey, values and what you are currently working on. Let’s start with an ice breaker: What is something outside of work that is bringing you joy lately?
I am a falconer and a beekeeper. I enjoy walking through fields with my hawk as she hunts. Tending to the bee hives in my yard is a great joy knowing I am helping them thrive and getting some honey as well.
These two things bring about a calm meditative state of mind and keep me in touch with nature.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
Each of us carries a unique narrative, often whispered only in the hidden corners of our being. My art delves into these untold stories, illuminating the shadows where they reside. It is within these concealed realms of the human psyche that I find inspiration, encouraging reflection upon the likes, dislikes, emotions, and belief systems that define us, challenge us, and sometimes confine us.
The interplay of extreme light and shadow in my work serves a dual purpose: as a technique and as a profound metaphor. It embodies the exploration of the occult—the veiled, the mysterious, and the intangible forces that shape our inner and outer worlds. Originally, my ambition was rooted in the classical tradition of portraiture, capturing the visible features of my subjects with meticulous realism. Yet, I came to realize that there is so much more to a person than what meets the eye. This realization compelled me to evolve, integrating elements of surrealism to reveal the unseen dimensions of the human spirit.
This journey led me to define my practice as “Comprehensive Portraiture,” an artistic pursuit that seeks to capture not only the physical presence of an individual but also the layers of their obscured essential world. My work stands as a mirror, reflecting both who we are and the boundless mysteries that surround us. It celebrates our shared fascination with the self and with the profound enigmas of existence, beckoning the viewer to embrace the awe-inspiring beauty waiting to be discovered in the shadows.
Appreciate your sharing that. Let’s talk about your life, growing up and some of topics and learnings around that. Who taught you the most about work?
Nothing made me happier than working on assignments given me by my Jr. High School art teacher, Mr. Stephen Lingenfelter; affectionately known to his students as “Link.”
This project, like all he laid before me, was not part of his common class curriculum. Whatever was assigned to the class paled in comparison to his singling me out with a task of which the difficulty level was far beyond what he expected of the other students. He pushed me to my limit, and beyond once I reached it.
He was a photographer and had taken a picture of an old train car rusting in a jungle of trees and leaves I was to reproduce in graphite. Knowing his passion for photography, I felt my drawing was a collective effort between him and I.
After finishing the drawing it met his approval with an A+ grade, which was the common score on my quarterly report card.
While the drawing was displayed in the student art exhibit, many of the faculty and students complimented me on my talents and I felt a sense of greatness.
In the weeks to come it was common for candid conversations to include my saying, “I’m the best artist in this school, Link gives me assignments no one else could pull off”, and similar bravado. To say the least, I was full of myself.
Soon after, the quarterly report cards were issued. I anticipated my usual low grades in all but music, gym, and art.
Scanning the report and gleaning over, while not caring about, anything but my usual high marks it read…
Music – A
Gym – A
Art – C.
Puzzled about the obvious mistake made in printing the card I went to Link’s classroom and voiced my concern. He too voiced his concern and suggested we meet after school to discuss the matter.
After entering his classroom I noticed a lack of his usual warm welcome. It felt more akin to the principal’s office than his art studio. I reminded him I have never received an art grade lower than an A+ in my entire school history. He acknowledged this to be true with a simple shake of his head propped up by his folded hands while leaning back in his chair.
I asked, “What are you going to do about this?” He calmly replied, “I already have done something.”
I was relieved to hear this and exclaimed, “Holy crap! I’m glad the grade will be changed to an A+.
Link sat in silence, staring right through me while stroking his beard and mustache.
The uncomfortable moment of silence was broken when he unclasped his hands and leaned forward with his proclamation. “The grade will not be changed.”
As my brow furrowed and mouth began to open, ready to spew all manner of rebuttal, the room was filled with a stern, “Sit down, shut up, and listen.”, which I promptly did.
He stood up, closed the classroom door and walked back to his desk and sat down.
“I believe you to be one of the most talented pupils to ever sit in my classroom”, he said. I remained silent, not knowing how to take this compliment as I could sense it was delivered with forboding. He continued, “Talent alone is not enough to succeed in this world. One must also be kind, courteous and exercise humility; the latter of which you are severely lacking.”
My head hung low, realizing my previous self proclaimed unrivaled artistic mastery had reached his ears.
I felt the discomfort of being at odds with Link for the first time in our relationship, knowing I was the source of disappointment, his and mine. I choked back the tears welling up in my eyes.
He informed me, “Because of your great potential you will now be graded under great scrutiny.”
“What does that mean?, I asked.
He clarified, “Your grades will be a combination of talent and attitude. You get an A in talent; and a F in attitude. This averages out to a C.”
Link told me to stand and offered a reassuring handshake. He firmly clasped my hand, looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m preparing you for the real world. You have the chance to earn an A next quarter, and far beyond that achievement in the future. The C will remain on your permanent record as a reminder. Someday when you’re the successful artist I know you can be, you’ll look back on this C and appriciate it. And you’ll talk about this C for the rest of your life.”
He was right.
Damn, I wish I would have saved that report card.
Was there ever a time you almost gave up?
I wasn’t happy about clocking in for my work shift at Carney’s Hamburger & Hot Dog stand, but I welcomed the exit from the crowded bus on these hot Summer afternoons.
I had walked one block from the bus stop with one to go, at which point my attention was drawn to a window filled with well dressed people, fine dining and laughing, while enjoying each other’s company over cocktails.
I slowed my pace and gazed into this window like a boy longing to pick out a puppy to take home.
It was Bar Marmont, the watering hole attached to Chateau Marmont, a place I presumed was reserved exclusively for the well-to-do.
Having no expendable income to mingle amongst the hip of Hollywood, I abandoned my daydreaming and continued my trek to make hamburgers for the masses.
The apron and paper hat fit all too well as I punched my time card into the clock.
The kitchen was filled with the strange smell of a combination of burger grease, industrial cleaning solutions, and body odor.
The french fryer I manned was positioned so that customers could have the experience of chatting with me while watching their meal being prepared.
“I make the best fries in Los Angeles!” was often my proclimation to the watering mouths of those waiting for my low-brow culinary skills to fill their bellies.
“Salted or unsalted, soft or extra crispy, you name it; I’ve got it!”, I reassured them.
It was hard work, yet I made the best of it by entertaining while serving.
The paniced scream, “More Fries!” was the constant call of duty shouted by the line manager.
I couldn’t tell if the moisture rolling down my brow and stinging my eyes was sweat or grease from the deep fat french fryer.
The line out the door was a block long; it seemed this hot Summer night all of Los Angeles wanted our fast food.
The dinner rush was finally over and a lull would be felt before the late night party crowd became ravenous.
While enjoying the slower pace, head down, salting and stirring spuds; I heard yet another customer wanting to chat with the “fry guy’.
Curiosity took me over as they called me by name. I looked up to greet them and was met with shock and horror. It was my former high school principal.
Her office was a regular stop for me back in the school days, and as you might suspect, not for pleasant reasons.
She often reminded me that my rebellious student and bohemian ways would end me up working in a grease pit.
Her smug “I told you so” stare pierced my very soul; and all I could say was, “Would you like ketchup with your fries?”
A wave of nausea and anxiety washed over me as I handed her the delicious crispy fried proof of her fullfilled prophecy.
I watched her walk away, munching on my fries with a ‘cat that ate the canary’ grin.
Spiraling into an unstable emotional state, I told the manager I wasn’t feeling well and needed to take my lunch break.
I found a reclusive spot outside to avoid anyone hearing my sobbing and to lick my wounds. I could barely see two feet in front of me due to my eyes being flooded with tears.
What were the odds of my former principal traveling across the country, from Florida to California, and walking into Carnie’s on my shift?
Choking down the very food she doomed my fate to, I experienced ‘the dark night of the soul.’
Was she right?
Were my dreams unattainable fantasies?
Have I lived a life of delusion?
Was this the universe telling me I was worthless?
And most painfully, was I condemned to this eternally?
These thoughts haunted me after my shift and became more profound as I once again passed Bar Marmont, viewing that which my ship would never find a port.
Sleep was restless that night. I had recently been dumped by my girlfriend for a guy with a Lamborghini and reflected on all that was wrong with my life choices.
I woke the next day with a mind exhausted from negative thoughts. With no more mental or physical tolerance for that exhaustion, I shifted to examination.
The questions I’d asked myself the night before became just that; only questions and not condemning sentances.
She was not right.
My dreams were attainable.
I was not delusional.
I was not worthless.
And most importantly, I did not have to accept my current state as eternal fate. I have a choice!
I had passed through ‘the dark night of the soul.’
Where to go from here?
I eagerly punched my bus pass to go to work.
I walked by Bar Marmont daily and told myself, “One day…”
I saved money in a sock under my pillow, specifically for the time I could afford to go to Bar Marmont.
One evening I opened the sock and realized I had enough money for the upcoming week’s groceries, rent, and one drink and a tip.
It was my night off. I put on my job interview outfit, consisting of a white shirt, black tie, and black slacks, and headed to Bar Marmont.
My hands sweaty and my confidence low, I felt the heaviness of the bar’s ten foot high brass doors being pushed to open.
Upon entering, I felt a sensation similar to the scene in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ when Dorothy leaves her world of dismal black and white into technicolor.
Consciously squashing the internal voice, “You don’t belong here”, I found a seat at the far end of the bar.
The interior was decorated with antiques, vintage wallpaper, and colorful butterflies pinned to the ceiling.
The bartender cheerfully introduced herself. “My name is Lita, what can I get for you?”
Not being familiar with craft cocktail menus I asked, “What do you suggest?”
She then asked, “Do you prefer gin, vodka, bourbon, tequila or wine?”
Being unsure of every option she offered, I instantly reflected on James Bond movies I’d seen and replied, “I’ll have a martini.”
She proposed yet another option, “gin or vodka?”
The coin toss in my mind landed on gin.
She pulled a crystal blue bottle of gin from the shelf with another of vermouth.
The sound of the silver shaker being filled with ice was like wind chimes in the breeze on a hot Summer day.
Her craft found me amazed as she poured the two solutions into the shaker with perfect proportion as her expertise left no need to measure.
She presented a frosted tall stemmed glass before me and slowly filled it with her creation. I was witnessing art in the making.
She asked, “Olive or lemon twist.” Once again I was caught out of my element and resorted to pictures I’d seen of martinis. “Olive please”, I answered with increased confidence.
She pierced a plump pimento stuffed olive with a bamboo skewer and placed it gracefully atop the glass.
I raised the glass to my lips only to be interrupted again by my inner voice, “Your type drinks Kool Aid and cheap beer, what right do you have being here? You’re an imposter!”
As this echoed in my mind, I noticed Lita anxiously awaiting my approval of the proposed elixir.
Not wanting to keep her in waiting, I took my first sip.
Her eyes widened as she watched the cocktail pass my lips.
I closed my eyes and allowed taste to become paramount.
“Is it to your liking?”, she asked.
I honestly replied, “This is the most wonderful cocktail I have ever had.”
She then offered a statement I will never forget, “I’m glad you like it and hope to see you here again.” At that point the discouraging inner voice was silenced.
Time passed. I subsequently got better jobs and eventually opened my own successful tattoo shop.
During my ascent to entrepreneurship, the ability to frequent Bar Marmont became my litmus test. Over time I became a weekly regular, greeted by all who worked there.
Heck! It got to a point where I could take guests and buy them dinner and drinks, something thought unattainable at one point in my life.
As much as serving french fries to my formal principal crushed me; it was an experience that caused me to believe in myself; no matter what.
I hope she enjoyed those fries as much as I eventually did.
Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. What would your closest friends say really matters to you?
Integrity. All I say or do is governed by it.
Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What do you understand deeply that most people don’t?
There is no “meaning” to the universe.
This is one of the central themes in existential philosophy.
It is the idea that the universe, in its vastness and indifference, offers no inherent script, no hidden manual, no preordained “meaning” written into its fabric.
We are not born with a defined purpose; rather, we exist first, and then we carve out meaning through our choices, actions, and creations.
Stop searching for meaning; create it.
Contact Info:
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