Friday, September 08, 2017
Thursday, September 07, 2017
I argued with my clay today.
No amount of reasoning, prentend-patience or threatening would budge it. The clay just refused to co-operate eventually leading to the fingers randomly falling off the hand I was trying to sculpt. Like any reasonable person I cussed, got a bit red in the face and tried to start again.
After two months away from the studio and away from sculpting it was unquenchable frustration trying to “get back into it”. Even as I returned from a cool-off walk-about around the studio and as hard as I tried the fingers refused to cooperate. The palm steadily became more and more misshapen and the wrist was a mess. I could not believe that two months away from the studio could mess with my connection with the clay so profoundly. And I sulked. I sulked like a two year old.
So after much mumbling and grumpy snorting and huffing I stepped away from my work-space and changed track. After all, sculpture (and particularly ceramic sculpture) isn’t just all about the clay right? Once the clay is hardened and dried it’s bisque-fired which means it’s ready for colour. After the mountain (ok ok molehill) of colour tests I’d done over some 3 months I felt sufficiently prepared to venture towards *actually* finishing a few pieces. (Up until now, I hadn’t finished any work due to the pending colour tests and experiments.)
Anyway, I tackled some of my bisqueware armed with an arsenal of oxides, carbonates and stains. And I must admit, I had fun. I knew what I wanted and how I could best achieve it. I knew the concentration of colour and where to ease up and where to let rip. And I had sufficient faith in the unpredictablity of the final firing process to know that even though the final product is a surprise, it’ll be an “expected” surprise.
And to my delight, the profound sense of dissatisfaction that pervaded my entire being while trying to sculpt the hand dissipated. Swooshing on the colour with my paintbrush, wiping off the residue to reveal the stain - it all proved so deeply satisfying. I fell in love with clay again. I fell in love with the hollow scrape as the bisqueware hits the concrete surface and the way it thirstily sucks up any water dropped on its surface. I love the way the oxide stains the ware leaving you with a sense of anticipation to see what the final colour emerges as from the firing. And most importantly, I fell in love with my ability to fall in love again.
I got home to a WhatsApp from Steph. “Sorry you were dealt a shitty hand today.” So’kay about the hand… I found the heart. :)
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Denial is a powerful thing.
Last night I was at dinner with a someone - lets call him Bob.
Bob is an IT something something who is in SA from foreign shores to figure out whether returning to the land of his birth (SA) is a wise or otherwise idea. Bob is anxious about the pseudo-diversity here - though he doesn’t say it in as many words. He is currently living in a global metropolis that is well connected to the world, so he is concerned about the isolation and a lack-of-connectedness. But Bob isn’t the subject of this story even though dinner with him may be the inspiration.
After deciding on a rather snazzy restaurant (in one of Gauteng’s premier art-malls), we were served by a black usher and proceeded to our table - menus and all (yes, I said black - bear with me on this one). We were then introduced to our black waiter who took our drinks order and so on and so forth. Later on into the meal, the black Maître de, doing his rounds, stopped over at our table to make a bit of small talk and do his customer-service thing. This is where it gets interesting.
A little while after the Maître de left and our table was cleared, the manager (or owner?) stopped at our table to further ensure that we were happy. I later passed him twice on my way to and from the ladies and recall seeing him when we walked in. I was convinced he was wearing foundation (yes, like make-up) and his hair - obviously long - was in a neat Steven Seagalesque tie-back. I bet you didn’t notice that I’d not assigned the manager a race. That’s because I couldn’t pin point it. The whole night through, it bugged me to no end that I couldn’t identify whether the man was Indian, coloured, black or… or…? I had this burning need to unpuzzle this puzzle, going to the extent of trying to get his name, mustering an excuse to strike up conversation. Perhaps his accent would give it away? Could he have a name badge?
As it happened, the opportunity to talk never arose because he had left the premises by the time our dinner was done. Later, and I mean a good few days later, I wondered why would his race matter so much? Why was it so important that I classify him?
It would be an understatement to say I’ve been a passionate race-denier. Even when confronted with blatant racism (read: “hey you coolie”), I refuse to give it the head-space it grandstands for. Why then was this man’s race such an issue for me? Why was it so important I was able to assign him a “colour” or worse - a box?
Perhaps it all began a few weeks ago when I had read this article (http://www.sapeople.com/2016/12/31/racist-coloured-south-african-traveller/). In all fairness the title got me going before I even began reading. Not even halfway through I began rolling my eyes and gesticulating wildly, “foul!” I cried while contemplating how un-racist we are (and by extention, how wrong the author was). I was self-righteously up-in-arms about the race-card pulled “yet” again. “But we HAVE grown, we’ve come so far”. I couldn’t bear another “South Africans are so racist” commentary.
Much to my horror, I came to the end of the article with an enormous question mark hovering 2cm above my head. He (Razeel Daniels) may have a point. The millisecond I gave Razeel Daniels the benefit of the doubt I pushed shoved it out with a self-righteous huff. And then at dinner with sweet Bob, I realised that we had actually not come so far after all.
I have a bone to pick with Razeel Daniels. And everyone else who agrees with him. Perhaps my trepidation comes from a sense of indignation. That good 'ol self-righteousness rearing its head again. But I can’t help asking if I am really a racist? Is the definition of a racist simply that of someone who sees skin colour?
One of my mum’s favourite “when you were little” stories is of a car-ride home from school when I asked her what colour coloureds were. I’ve always seen myself as “that” kid - the one who didn’t see any difference between a black or white friend. The woman who gave the middle-finger to even thinking about race.
This whole debacle has made me angry I’ll tell ya. ‘Cause this is the thing right? It seems to me that while South Africa - and certainly those generations that haven’t experienced institutionalised Apartheid or are too young to remember it (yours truly included) - proudly strut their beyond-race status, the magic wand dispelling the atrocities of the past and erasing it from our psyche didn’t seem to quite do its job. And so we’re left in a sort of mental-emotional twilight-zone. A nation of racist race-deniers. Gosh, even typing that makes my skin crawl.
So it’s back to the proverbial drawing board. Back to the place where I ask myself the hard questions. Back to that uncomfortable space where I unlearn the stuff I didn’t even realise I’d learnt.
Boy oh boy. Come to think of it, Apartheid really did the doozy on us.
Sunday, April 02, 2017
Dear Not-so-dear President Zuma,
You forget Mr President that we are the children of freedom fighters and lovers of democracy.
Our blood, fortified by our forefather’s legacies makes us strong, resilient and fiercely protective of this thing called Our Freedom.
Mr President,
You lay waste to our country.
You strip it of its resources. You rape our women and pillage our fields.
You, like crude black oil, suffocate our children. Stealing food from their mouths, roofs from over their heads.
Your henchmen hunt down our men. You and your ancestors are stained with the blood of those who have died under your rule.
You sink a fetid sink.
Our children have no respect for you. Our elders have lost faith.
But the shock Mr President, in all of this - the shock - you remain our President. Our Mr President. You remain at the helm of our ship and we are left in exasperation asking “Why?”, “but how!?” - arms flailing, bodies sagging.
I can just hear that ominous laugh. That hollow “he he he” - an omen of awful things to come.
See the thing is Mr President, that you underestimate us. The Guptas underestimate us too. You *think* you can win this game. You *think* that even if you “lose” you would have won. But you forget Mr President that freedom is in our blood. And the further you lay waste the country, the further you quash our freedoms the harder and stronger we will fight back.
You forget Mr President that we made a promise to protect that freedom as unborn children in our mothers wombs. When we heard the wailing for the dead, when we smelt the smoke in the air from the burning.
You forget Mr President that we are a nation of freedom fighters. Our blood fortified by the sacrifices of our forebears.
You forget Mr President who you are dealing with.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
I think birthdays are pretty darned awesome. And enormous. I think birthdays are pretty darned awesome and enormous. And not in a celebrate-your-pants-off kinda way. I think birthdays are awesome and enormous for your insides. Birthdays are a chance at rebirth, a chance to grasp a poignant moment in time and make it make a difference.
What better way to effect a positive, life-affirming, growth-inspiring life change than the day of your birth. Imagine the possibilites when each birthday becomes a rebirth, a chance to celebrate a year of re-life every single year? Imagine that’s a new you for every year of the rest of your life.
It’s like a youth cocktail, all wrapped up neatly with a bow and presented to you on your special day. Sprinkles or no. Cherry optional. And the best part is that you can chose to sip it or plug it as you please.
Can you hear it? The sweet sound of beckoning possibility. Alive with the electricity of “The Moment”.
Adieu.
