Durban, Kwazulu-Natal, under a bridge
The scene was a glorious one, saturated with texture and aroma. If I could spend my time here for a day, what marvellous artworks would come of it, what lasting lessons to school me in life. But here, I was transient. Probably tourist, possibly spy.
Bulbous forms and tips of tentacled succulents struggled to conceal themselves under frazzled tarpaulin. Pots were scoured and steam was beginning to rise from various metal containers. Everything was abuzz. The morning of the day was anticipating its eventualities.
I wasn't
interested in the goods for sale, neither was I here in the capacity of a dreaded inspection officer. I was after the people -
which made my position, perhaps, even more conspicuous. Shoving a
camera into people's faces, even from a distance, would be close to
illegal today and I couldn't speak the language to explain myself.
Uncharismatic soul that I am, I was bluntly ignored whenever I tried
to communicate.
A few minutes ago I was dropped off at the one end of a pile-up of chaos by C from the
Art Room and the arrangement was to walk through the few blocks of
street vendors, gathering reference material as I went and meet up
with C again at the other end, while he drove round the block. No
time for building relationships in such a measured situation!
The
faces I managed to observe through the little built in lens of my
inadequate camera, were hiding behind scarves, behind pillars, behind
cigarette smoke. I could swear that some of the old ladies revealed
to me by my voyeurish lens, reminded me of my grandmother, and not in
one of her good moods either!
Great heaps of golem-like shapes stacked on every "shop counter" or floor, suddenly disappeared under tarpaulin into darkness with one deft sweep of the arm, like magic, whenever I came one step too close. Is there anything which teases the curiosity more?
I was at the point of throwing it all up for lost, march of to the point of rendezvous and tell C of the so many good chances lost to me forever and me not getting a single damn pic, when a comprehending expression met my own teeth clenching visage. To himself (perhaps): "This poor white chicky is surely lost or a reporter as green as pond scum or a crazy little tourist from Holland or Germany."
His sole merchandise was an arrangement of tiny and medium sized bottles. Brown liquid inside that looked sticky and as ancient as the bottle of preserved figs inhabiting the deepest recesses of my grocery cupboard, never ever to be confronted, in my lifetime.
"A great secret of healing lies in these brown bottles", I thought to myself and I wondered what it is for. If these few bottled samples are all that's on offer, and yet enable a person to make a living after all, they must be exquisiteness bespoke!
And then he let me shoot him: His comfortable face, his exquisite jersey, his hands, his bottles. He made me think of the provider of a simple yet great and stable home. I marvelled at the wife who could knit such jersey and keep her man so well kept and well humoured too. Yes I did think it home knit, because never in my life have I encountered such a jersey. Such is not sold in your local Ackermans nor Woolworths either.
Back home in my studio, it was my job to decipher this jersey, stitch by stitch. In a weird (but logical) way it makes my life easier, when I "understand" the pattern before I draw it. In fact, understanding anything before attempting to convey it is important to me. Understanding things in shapes and shades, forms and patterns, yes.
But some things will forever lay hidden: The home life of this muthi seller who had nothing to hide, the authenticity, or not, of his jersey, the magic power of his medicine and the unconditional acceptance of an obviously out of place stranger like me as a normal phenomenon of nature.
Above Board
120cm
x128cm
Pastel on wooden board
2014