Egypt and the Owl House – What is the Connection?

 Ever since I was young, I’ve had a deep, abiding fascination with the Owl House, the creation of Outsider Artist Helen Martins who lived in the tiny Karoo town of Nieu Bethesda in South Africa until she tragically ended her own life in 1976. If you’ve never heard the term “Outsider Art” before, in a nutshell, according to the Tate Gallery: “Outsider art is used to describe art that has a naïve quality, often produced by people who have not trained as artists or worked within the conventions of traditional art production”. (1)

This places Helen’s work under the umbrella shared by the likes of the Palais Idéal by Ferdinand Cheval (Hauterives, France, 1836-1924), Nek Chand Saini’s Rock Garden (Chandigarh, India, 1924-2015), and Veijo Rönkkönen Sculpture Garden by Veijo Rönkkönen (Parikkala, Finland, 1944-2010), among many others – these are all well worth a Google if you wish for a wonderful way to explore paths that are quite extraordinary. Outsider Art can therefore be considered a lively global phenomenon that transcends cultures and often crops up in unexpected locations. In addition to regular art materials, it can incorporate found materials in unconventional ways. Outsider Art never fails to elicit strong responses from people who encounter it for the first time. Like it or hate it, there’s no denying that in all its diverse forms, Outsider Art is certainly memorable.

Helen Martins’ Owl House is unforgettable.

From the outside, her home appears as a typical, unassuming Karoo dwelling, but a second glance will draw your gaze to the cement owl sculptures on the stoep enclosed in a wire mesh ‘cage’. If you then peek over the stone wall, you’ll catch your first glimpse of the fantastic Camel Yard – the property’s entire garden has been transformed with hundreds of cement-and-glass statues of camels, pilgrims, mermaids, bottle-skirted hostesses, and other, assorted figures that feed into the rich imagination of their creator.

The interior of the home has also been transformed – its walls painted bright colours and encrusted with crushed glass. Strategically placed mirrors, cut into suns and moons, and other shapes, reflect light, and while Helen was still alive, she would light a multitude of candles and lamps after sunset. If you consider that Nieu Bethesda was only connected to the national electricity grid in the early 1990s, you’ll understand exactly how dark the interior of a home could be back then. And, for those of us currently dealing with load shedding, who have not had the wherewithal to go solar or purchase an inverter, you’ll have an all-too-intimate understanding of exactly how suffocating and tangible the darkness becomes once the sun sets.

But what, I’m sure you’re asking now, does any of this have to do with Egypt?

Some of the themes prevalent in Helen’s work resulted in a synthesis of her own personal cosmology involving light and darkness, with strong solar and lunar themes, but also drew upon Western, Near Eastern, and biblical themes, blending them all in an unrestrained expression of creativity made concrete with cement, wire, glass, and found objects.

And, once you wander past the throngs of pilgrims, camels, bottle-skirted hostesses, owls, and mermaids, you will find a spot of ‘Egypt’ in the Camel Yard, complete with sphinxes and 15 pyramids constructed out of cement over wire armatures. Now Helen herself never visited Egypt, so most of her image sources would have included the humble Lion matchbox with its iconic red lion and other found items, such as postcards. 

Art historian Susan Imrie Ross further elucidates:

In Helen’s house is a well-worn, beautifully tooled leather writing case containing old family photographs and letters. Among the many Egyptians scenes depicted on it are lions, ibises, camels, the sun, Egyptian gods, and birds which appear to have the body of an owl and the face of a human. It is interesting to see the variety of objects on the writing case which could have inspired her, but which she did not choose to use. Subjects such as bulls, the Egyptian half-man half-animal gods, boats to the underworld, chariots, and bowmen obviously did not strike chords with her. (2)

Of course, those who know Egypt’s monuments well, need not have it explained that a sphinx is traditionally depicted as a lion with a human head. (If you’re a mythology buff, you’ll know that variations do exist in Egypt and other cultures.) The sphinx itself, if you run with the ancient Egyptian iteration of this mythological beastie, would be associated with the lion – a solar symbol. We can debate that it possibly further ties in with the lion as it appears in Helen’s cosmology, where it is associated with her father, with whom she had a troubled relationship. To further support this theory, another lion encountered in the Camel Yard has motorcar headlights for eyes (perhaps suggestive of its ability to see in the dark). It is located near the outside room where Helen’s father was banished in his later years. The room was painted black and named ‘The Lion’s Den’.

As for the pyramids, they add to the monumental nature of the Camel Yard in general. Of course, we can only surmise what Helen truly intended them to represent – as symbols, they are powerful reminders of the belief in transcending death, of being able to attain a good afterlife, if one takes into consideration the intentions of the original tomb builders of ancient Egypt.

Perhaps, in a way, it can be conjectured that these creations were Helen’s own attempt at having her name spoken long after her passing, so that in a way, too, she might attain a sort of immortality.

Even if in life, she was somewhat of a social pariah – through her own actions and/or through the regard of her fellow villagers – her creation has in recent years provided a vital lifeline of tourism for this sleepy little Eastern Cape village that it might ordinarily not have experienced. Every year, thousands of tourists take that turnoff from the N9 to visit Helen Martins’ legacy. Whether they stay for a few hours, have a meal, and buy a few curios or linger for days to soak in the sedate ambience, Nieu Betheda arguably casts a magnificent spell on visitors.

If you do find your route winding along near Graaff-Reinet, do consider making a detour to Nieu Bethesda and reckon on spending at least half a day, if not more. It’s also a great place to overnight if you’re breaking up your road trip. Not only will you encounter a community filled with warmth and creativity, but you will have a chance to experience the magical legacy of Helen Martins that will no doubt be spoken of for many more years.

References

1. “Tate.” Art Term: Outside Art. www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/o/outsider-art. Website accessed 18 Jan. 2023

2. Imrie Ross. (1997). This is my world: The life of Helen Martins, Creator of the Owl House (1st ed.). Oxford University Press Southern Africa.

Through the lens of Santu Mofokeng #photography

Santu Mofokeng’s series of photographs of black South Africans, Black Photo Album: Look at Me: 1890-1950 (1997) should be viewed within context in its role as the consolidation of an archive. As Mofokeng states: “These are images that urban black working- and middle-class families had commissioned, requested, or tacitly sanctioned. They are left behind by dead relatives, where they sometimes hang on obscure parlor walls in the townships. In some families they are coveted as treasures, displacing totems in discursive narratives about identity, lineage, and personality” (Cargo Collective). These images are drawn from a period which gave rise to apartheid and the disenfranchisement of black people in the country, as well as an erasure of their identity beyond the official, state-sanctioned information (Furstenberg 2002:60).

The images themselves are clearly posed, themselves creating an illusion through their careful poise and attention to detail, down to the choice in clothing and props selected, as expression of the subjects’ whims and, as Mofokeng states: “We see these images in the terms determined by the subjects themselves, for they have made them their own. They belong and circulate in the domain of the private. That is the position they occupied in the realm of the visual in the nineteenth century. It was never their intention to be hung in galleries as works of art” (Cargo Collective).

The people depicted in the photographs are ordinary, everyday people whose stories would have otherwise gone untold had the images not been preserved. The importance of these images is also worthwhile bearing into consideration, for as Mofokeng says, “Officially, black people were frequently depicted in the same visual language as the flora and fauna, represented as if in their natural habitat for the collector of natural history” (Cargo Collective). Compare these to photographs taken by William Roe (of which a selection is housed at the Graaff-Reinet Museum, Graaff-Reinet), and it becomes apparent that Mofokeng’s work fills a large gap in the photographic record that depicts black Africans in a similar fashion – snapshots of people’s lives that exist as a sort of time capsule that remembers where official history-makers of the time were apt to erase.

Something else that one must consider, specifically within the context of the time that this work was put together (1997) that a large body of the photography documenting black lives would have focused on events such as the violence in the townships. To bring out a body of work such as this, Mofokeng is showing a very different side to the public compared to what would, at the time, have been presented in the public eye, as stated by Furstenberg (2002:61): “Mofokeng positions his practice as an alternative to the collectivizing and dehumanizing operations of the archive and to the totalizing notions of identity constructed by the concepts of ‘Soweto’ and ‘townships’”.

The images themselves therefore offer viewers a degree of visual ambiguity precisely because they are taken out of context of the homes in which they initially hung. Their meaning, collected, changes, becoming rather a narrative discourse about a population segment, rather than purely portraits of family. Together, they establish a collective identity for those who were historically disenfranchised and disempowered due to apartheid. The images stand together to preserve memories that would have otherwise been swept under the rug or otherwise ignored, and also speak of a people who have made the trappings of European culture their own. By not being overtly political these images regrouped during recent years nonetheless communicate the effects of an oppressive regime without resorting to blatant imagery. Look at Me does exactly what the title suggests, offering the viewer the command to look, and not deny the past, and to remember and not be swept under the carpet.

 
Bibliography:
Furstenberg, L. 2002. Representing the Body Archivally in South African Photography. Art Journal 61(1), Spring:58-67.

Santu Mofokeng. Cargo Collective. September 12, 2015. <http://cargocollective.com/santumofokeng/black-photo-album>

The photographic activism of Zanele Muholi #southafrica

South Africa’s liberal constitution dates back to 1996 when “South Africa became the first and only country in the world to explicitly incorporate the rights of lesbians and gay men into its constitution by prohibiting, among other things, discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation” (Gunkel 2009:3) and, while on paper, these words appear progressive when compared to other parts of the world where lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and intersex (LGBTI) people suffer persecution, South Africa nonetheless remains a dangerous place for the LGBTI in an overwhelmingly hetero-normative society. This is borne out by the many violent crimes that have been perpetrated against those who are LGBTI, and perhaps especially the homophobic rape of black lesbians (Gunkel 2009:5).

Furthermore, when Arts and Culture Minister Lulu Xingwana (Cape Times, 2010) walked out of an exhibition where Zanele Muholi’s work, which illustrates black lesbians within an intimate setting, was being displayed, saying: “Our mandate is to promote social cohesion and nation-building. I left the exhibition because it expressed the very opposite of this. It was immoral, offensive and going against nation-building”, she sent a public message that echoed the nation’s entrenched homophobia among more conservative elements. Xingwana’s personal opinion stands in direct contradiction with the values laid down within the South African Constitution. That an individual, such as she, who maintains a socially influential position, could perpetuate such sentiments, illustrates the dichotomy between that which is prescribed and what is, ultimately, practised. It is within this context that photographer and visual activist Muholi’s artwork emerges, further explained when Makhubu writes: “The targeting of gay and lesbian individuals in townships is reflective of the aggressive denial of female power. Curative rape that is meant to ‘set [lesbians] straight’ shows that in society, lesbian women, gay men and transgender individuals are a threat to generally accepted yet iniquitous social constitutions (Makhubu 2012:521).

A selection of Muholi’s work on her page at Artsy, reveals a majority of black-and-white portraits of mostly black lesbians and individuals whose gender identity can be viewed as ambiguous, openly blending male and female attributes (Artsy 2015). Some, like the triptych Caitlin and I, Boston, USA, 2009 are in full colour. In most cases, focus is on the individual, with a simple or even abstract background. Where the subjects’ faces are visible, they are often staring directly, boldly towards the viewer, as if suggesting that they are present, undeniable, and very much part of society. Muholi herself states: “...it struck me that our struggle was in a way operating within a void, if people don’t see you, and by this I mean if they don’t connect to your personhood, they can easily violate you or look the other way if they are witnesses to violence against you” (Dlungwana 2015) and in that very manner, Muholi’s work aims to make visible that which has until quite recently, been considered taboo. Laws notwithstanding, a visual activist such as Muholi is a contributor in the on-going struggle to destigmatise and normalise the relationships and states of being of LGBTI people, to establish a shared narrative. In her work, as visual activist, Muholi stresses the importance of community, of collaboration: “Obviously, in telling any story you can’t just be the star of the tale, other people feature and their contribution and their own stories become part of the whole narrative, and so capturing images of lesbian and transgender men and women in South Africa as well as other parts of the continent and the Diaspora was an organic and practical development. You never act alone, not with things this important, you need community” (Dlungwana 2015).

Functions of photographs, for instance Caitlin and I, Boston, USA, 2009, serve to normalise LGBTI relationships within the public eye, especially within the context of a fine art gallery. We are faced with an image of two women who are intimately involved or who are, at least, at ease enough in each other’s presence to be naked, exposed. Commentary is not only delivered within the framework of gender, but also of race, of the coming together of black and white in a community post-apartheid and recovering from its restrictions on the mingling of different races. These women are free to love as they desire, and by their confidence jointly challenge anyone who would suggest otherwise. Their poses are relaxed, their expressions watchful, as if suggesting that they are comfortable being who they are and, as Muholi states, “people are seeing us, they are acknowledging that we exist, that we have a voice and will not be silenced and erased without a care” (Dlungwana 2015).

There is a frankness about Muholi’s work when viewing not only the postures of her subjects, but also in the way that she titles her photographs. Often, names are given and, as stated by Makhubu, “this provision of personal details asserts fearlessness, as if to declare: we are here, we are your neighbours, friends, your sons and daughters, your mentors and we will not budge – a sentiment that seems to permeate Muholi’s body of work” (Makhubu 2012:516). This removal of stigma, places the LGBTI individuals back in society, makes them an undeniable part of a community and family. Though atrocities have been committed against Muholi’s subjects, her work returns their dignity and works towards establishing a new legacy, a body of work that infiltrates the hetero-normative media that stands in contrast the assumption that “the stigmatising of queer sexuality is entwined with the assumption that people who are lesbian or gay are actually anatomically distinct” (Baderoon 2011, p. 391).

Muzi Khumalo IV, 2010, depicts a black youth who unashamedly makes eye contact with the viewer, staring directly at the lens. Careful grooming of his hair and the subtle use of make-up suggest the assimilation of traditionally feminine style. This blurring of the edges of traditional gender roles also suggests a fluidity of expression, and forces the viewer to ask, “Just what makes someone male/female?” Is it the clothes we wear? How we groom ourselves? By setting these blended expressions of presentations, we are no longer bound to tradition.

How viewers interpret Muholi’s work says much about their stances, as can be deduced from Xingwana’s response; however even such statements can open the door for further dialogue related to the subject. If a person feels discomforted by an image; if a person is forced to examine self to unpack why it is that an image causes a strong response, then Muholi has succeeded in her intention of initiating this discussion between the subject, who has allowed the photograph to be taken, and the viewer, who has entered the environment where the photograph has been displayed. In a sense, the photograph creates an unthreatening space in which this discussion can take place by this degree of separation. The photograph itself should also be viewed in a sense as a time capsule, a snapshot of a particular moment; and by equal measure its socio-historic context should be borne in mind while it is being viewed. Understandably, as time passes, and a larger body of works grows – and perhaps even references the work Muholi has accumulated – we may still see a shift in perception where LGBTI relationships have been normalised, where being presented with an interracial relationship in unabashed and honest nakedness will no longer result in a defamiliarisation for the viewer. Yet this can only occur if pioneering individuals such as Muholi create a visual foundation upon which others can build.

Bibliography:
Baderoon, G. 2011. “Gender within gender”: Zanele Muholi’s images of trans being and becoming. Feminist studies 37(2), Summer:390-416

Cape Times. Arts minister in lesbian art photo furore. IOL. n.p. 2010. September 10, 2015. <http://www.iol.co.za/lifestyle/arts-minister-in-lesbian-art-photo-furore-1.979074#.VfFjjyK0umx>

Dlungwana, P. Interview with Zanele Muholi. C&. n.p. 2015. September 10, 2015. <http://www.contemporaryand.com/blog/magazines/im-an-activist-first-being-a-photographer-allows-me-a-greater-and-more-influential-audience/>

Gunkel, H. 2009. Through the postcolonial eyes: images of gender and female sexuality in contemporary South Africa. Journal of Lesbian Studies. 13(1):77-87

Makhubu, N. 2012. Violence and the cultural logistics of pain: representations of sexuality in the work of Nicholas Hlobo and Zanele Muholi. Critical Arts: A South-North Journal of Cultural & Media Studies 25(4):504-524.

Zanele Muholi. Artsy. n.p. 2015. September 10, 2015. <https://www.artsy.net/artist/zanele-muholi/works>

Thoughts on Prison Hacks/Prison Sentence by Willem Boshoff #art

For what it's worth, here's what I've written for my visual literacy module at varsity with regard to South African artist Willem Boshoff's Prison Hacks/Prison Sentence...

Picture: http://www.willemboshoff.com/documents/artworks/prison_sentences.htm

As a conceptual artist, Willem Boshoff challenges his viewers to consider the interplay of words, textures and visual elements, and in the case of Prison Hacks/Prison Sentences (2006, installation of black Zimbabwe granite slabs; Constitutional Court, Johannesburg) it’s important to take into consideration not only the name of the work and its execution, but the materials used and the location in which the work is installed, as all have bearing on the ultimate meaning and, consequently, the choice of name. It can also be argued that the decision to change the name of the work is also part of the overall presentation of the installation and the understanding that one can gain from discussion of this discourse.

In considering Prison Hacks/Prison Sentences, attention should be paid to the materials used in the installation. Boshoff’s choice of black granite – a type of material used often for headstones in cemeteries – is not arbitrary, when he says: “I chose the black granite as it is the material of a graveyard. It is also the material used to build memorials.” (Boshoff 2012) Stone lends permanence; it is a lasting reminder that endures after brick has crumbled and wood has rotted. The use of granite and the reference to headstones draws viewers’ thoughts to other associations, such as death, and the memorialisation of lives that have passed. The location of the installation also has significance, in that it is situated on the premises of the Constitutional Court, the work therefore suggestive as memorial to the injustices of the past.

The granite slabs themselves have been polished to a high sheen and engraved with the kinds of marks used by prisoners to denote the passing of time – especially in an environment where an inmate has limited or no contact with the outside world. Boshoff states: “Each prisoner counts the days of his or her sentence already served by scoring a vertical hack through each day. After six days a diagonal is scored across the verticals to close a week of days. This is done on a wall, in a private place, perhaps in a cell or toilet.” (Boshoff 2012) This bears a direct correlation to the original title, Prison Hacks. To hack something suggests a crude movement, to cut, to carve, but connotations of the word also suggests the activity of someone who isn’t doing a particular good job of something (for instance, a bad writer is sometimes referred to as a hack). Perhaps at a stretch, the word “hack” can also relate to an activity of someone accessing information off a computer system without permission. According to Boshoff (Boshoff 2012) he preferred Prison Hacks “because a hack is a term for a person hired to do dull routine work, but also means a line that you draw through something”, with each ‘hack’ representing a day of the prisoner’s sentence.

Wordplay is an important element of Boshoff’s art, with many of his works featuring typographical elements: “Boshoff often refers to the etymological link between the words ‘text’, ‘texture’ and ‘textile’, which can all be traced to the Latin texere … textured surfaces often suggest that they can be read, with the eye or the hand.” (Vladislavic 2015, p. 28) which encourage a sense of engagement between the viewer and work that transcends a passive audience. Initially, Boshoff created three slabs covered in hacks, denoting the time served by Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada, however he was later commissioned to create the full complement of panels, and during that time Boshoff fell upon on a name change for the work. The wordplay associated with “sentences” can be read in two ways. The most obvious connection would be to the time periods indicated in the work, the actual prison sentence served by each of the men. The secondary meaning refers to the spirit of Boshoff’s work, that results in a dialogue between artist, work, and viewer – a dialogue, a conversation – a sentence. (Vladislavic 2015, p. 28)

This fluidity of meaning elicited by Boshoff’s work engages the senses. The work is tactile, and as the name change suggests, the work has been open to dialogue during the process of its creation. The name change can be viewed as a refinement, of taking the rough, unfinished work and completing it to initiate a conversation as opposed to the initial marks that were put down, suggestive of a finality, resignation. A sentence invites discussion, takes the “hacks” further and leads the viewer to make conclusions.

Bibliography:

Vladislavic, I. 2015. Willem Boshoff. Johannesburg: David Krut Publishing. Pages 26-32)

Willem Boshoff Artist 2012, Prison Sentences, Boshoff, W. Available from: < http://www.willemboshoff.com/documents/artworks/prison_sentences.htm>. [16 August 2015].

The Butcher Boys

Here's an idea of what I've been studying this year. This is one of the questions from my Visual Literacy module at varsity. (Also, my lecturer for some bizarre reason did NOT like me comparing these chaps to Frankenstein's monster, but I'll stand by my opinion on the matter.)

Picture: Wiki Commons

Upon first sight, the ominous figures of Jane Alexander’s The Butcher Boys (c. 1985/86. Mixed media, size unknown. Iziko South African National Gallery, Cape Town) strikes casual viewers with the vision of diabolical monsters lurking upon an ordinary wooden bench; however a closer view of the trio suggests that these so-called perpetrators of apartheid may also be considered victims of the very system they are proposed to uphold.

Alexander’s The Butcher Boys presents viewers with an undeniable, arresting focal point, especially considering where they have been placed in the Iziko Museums National Gallery – on their bench prominently positioned in the entrance hall, which makes them one of the first works that confronts visitors. A close examination of the sculpture reveals the figures’ lifelike poses and great attention to realism that has imbued the figures with physical menace. They are life sized and present an ominous blend of human and animal that immediately draws the eye and elicits a visceral response, much in the same way that bystanders feel compelled to stare at the scene of an accident. As passive bystanders, viewers are placed in a situation where they are confronted by a work that elicits a range of responses that are open to interpretation.

If anything, a viewer’s possible initial response of revulsion and macabre fascination, may lead to the sense that these entities pose a very real threat thanks to their powerful, well-defined musculature and positioning that give semblance to the potential of sudden movement made frightening by the unholy addition of horns. Their eyes, too, set them apart – dark and liquid, like that of an animal, possibly unthinking, fearful and feral. Their sickly, clay-like complexion suggests a skin tone that is neither black nor white, but is neutral and possibly diseased, even. Darker blemishes on their necks and by their damaged spines are suggestive of weeping wounds that have not healed. The figures represent an anomaly – constructs that should not be, like Frankenstein’s monster, composite beings made up of the discarded parts of others. Through a process of dehumanisation, these once well-proportioned human individuals have become perverted effigies; their physical bodies have been twisted into a parody of mankind by their taking on of bestial qualities. This is summed up by John Peffer, who writes, “Through the graphic distortion of the body and its metamorphosis into a beast, artists posed trenchant questions about the relation of corporeal experience to ideas about animality, community, and the sacred.” (Peffer 2009, p. 71) Alexander’s The Butcher Boys, through the addition of animal horns, bestial eyes, removal of ears, emasculation of the genitalia, and muting of the mouths, in addition to mutilation of the spine and throat, are a discomforting blend of human and animal that cannot simply be ignored. The choice of incorporating animal horns into the sculpture not only suggests the bestial metamorphosis akin to the Minotaur in its ancient Cretan Labyrinth – the product of a transgression against nature and the gods – but considered in a largely Western (and Christian) context, is also suggestive of the diabolical.

Context is important when viewing The Butcher Boys, especially considering the circumstances in which it was initially released. As Peffer writes, “During 1985 a state of emergency was declared in South Africa in response to renewed outbreaks of violent resistance, and was renewed yearly until 1990. The police were again given wide-ranging powers for the forceful suppression of popular protest, including the detention and interrogation of suspects without trial. Over thirty thousand people were detained between 1986 and 1987. During this period, Jane Alexander produced a sculptural group, The Butcher Boys (1985-86).” (Peffer 2009, p. 75) This climate of fear meant that South Africans could not be outspoken about or stand against conditions within the country. The Boys are mute – Alexander has created them without functioning mouths; it was not possible for South Africans to speak out against the oppressive government at the time, without fear of reprisal. With their ears removed, The Butcher Boys are incapable of hearing, suggesting that they’d be unable to hear pleas for mercy. The fact that their throats have been tampered with indicates that their vocal chords may be affected, on top of them not having functioning mouths. Exposed, damaged spines may also suggest a “spinelessness” or cowardice – further indication of either an inability or incapacity to resist, to act. Much can be read into the choice of their poses as well. The figure on the left seems relaxed, indifferent almost, as if he is waiting, resigned to his state of being. The figure in the middle, and the one on the far right, both give the appearance of paying attention to events the one on the far left hasn’t noticed (or won’t) yet. The Boy in the centre is alert, watchful, yet it is the one on the far right that suggests that he is about to move. Whether this reaction will result in a fight-or-flight response, is not made explicit, and it can be suggested that this conclusion can be left to the discretion of the viewer. The figures’ realism adds to the suggestion that each Boy is poised on the cusp of movement.

Friedrich Nietzsche's aphorism 146, from Beyond Good and Evil, resonates strongly a possible conception of Jane Alexander's The Butcher Boys: “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you.” (Nietzsche 1990, p. 102) The process of creating a monster goes two ways; through becoming the perpetrator of a broken, repressive system, of people who are shaped into tools for a greater evil, whose worldview is narrowed to the point where the “truth” that they are fed is limited (as illustrated by the Boys’ limited senses) the Boys themselves are victims, damaged and lashing out in much the same way as the Greek Minotaur or Frankenstein’s monster – unable to feel empathy and enslaved to their bestial natures that are enforced on them by authority figures.

Primarily, the Boys evoke horror. As Bick states, “Alexander’s work activates the space of viewership with the psychic and visceral experience of horror that continues to haunt us as we turn away, but more importantly, her work is itself haunted by experiences of untold, traumatic, and often irretrievable histories, which on the one hand seem outside the ethics and even capacity of representation … and on the other, without reflective and critical attention, are in danger of becoming lost to the past.” (Bick 2010, p. 32) We confront the Boys in a public space, in a gallery, where they lurk as a visible reminder of our inconvenient, unspoken past. Now, thirty years after their creation, they “confront the public secret of apartheid head on, not only by ‘giving evidence’ which could not be admitted in public or by the (white) public to itself. (Peffer 2009, p. 77) The Butcher Boys offers viewers a solid reminder, one that is presented, and based on the perception of the manner in which they are seated, of an unhurried watchfulness; their physicality suggests that they’re not just going to go away; they’re here, waiting, immovable, implacable. They evoke a primal reaction, of fear, very human yet reduced to instinctual responses. They have come into being through the action of a repressive system, to induce terror at a primal level, not only to be scorned but to be viewed with pity, for having been damaged so that they are no longer equipped to function within society nor adapt to changing circumstances.

Cognisance must also be taken of how socio-cultural context changes through the passage of time. Over the years, the possible meanings and interpretations of The Butcher Boys may shift thanks to the cultural biases of viewers; those who were born after 1994 may perhaps not draw upon the same sense of outrage as those who were present during the 1980s, when apartheid’s stranglehold experienced its last, reflexive gasps. There are those who are adult now, for whom the realities of detention without trial and enforced national service are relegated to a few lines in reference books. We are no longer faced with a visceral sucker punch of the intense horror, and though The Butcher Boys are mute, they linger as sentinels to this past – lest we forget.

As to whether The Butcher Boys were either victims or perpetrators of the apartheid system this question cannot, therefore, be considered as an either/or kind of situation. The Butcher Boys are both. As individuals they have been stunted by the system that has used them as enforcers of violence. Therein, ultimately, lies the tragedy, that through their dehumanisation they have been turned into the very monster that one should fear. Their contorted, physical forms are a reflection of the underlying social trauma that South Africans have faced under the yoke of an oppressive regime. The Butcher Boys are a reminder of the bestial actions perpetrated against thousands of South Africans, that have turned the perpetrators into monsters; yet at the same time we cannot forget that these so-called monsters were once human too, twisted into objects to fear and pity as a result of their actions.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Bick, T. 2010. Horror histories: apartheid and the abject body in the work of Jane Alexander. African Arts. Winter: 30-41.

Nietzsche. F. 1990. Beyond Good and Evil. Penguin Group: London. Page 102

Peffer, J. C2009. Art and the end of apartheid. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. (Chapter 2: Becoming Animal. Pages 41-72).

On the art of art, and thinking and feeling people...

No one liked Miss W when I was in primary school. She was our art teacher, and she was constantly shouting at the kids who ran in the passages and made noise. Miss W was also very strict in her class, and I don’t think many of us liked that. I mean, hell, who likes anyone cramping their style when you’re under 12?

The kids at school didn’t like me much either. Or, rather, not many of the cool kids did. The trolls. I hung out with the dregs, the handful of Afrikaans kids or the ones whose parents didn’t have much money. Oh, wait, and the two token coloured kids, because this was the early 1990s in South Africa, just when the schools were becoming open to other races. The rejects didn’t much like each other, but we didn’t hate each other either. We had very little in common except that the trolls ganged up on us. So we stuck together because at least this way no one bothered us. Safety in numbers and all that.

Looking back, I couldn’t handle being teased, which was kinda like a red flag for the trolls, who delighted in making my life miserable. I didn’t know how to react. (I laboured under the impression that if I was nice to people, they’d automatically be nice to me.) Sarcasm baffled me. Witty come-backs eluded me. So I got a reputation for roughing up the boys who tormented me. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself. My primary school years were seven years of misery, in which I escaped into art, books and music.

I digress.

There was something else. I loved art, and when Miss W spoke about how to make good art, I listened. Whenever I did art in Miss W’s class, I felt good about myself, because here was something that I could do well. Art classes were quiet, and we lost ourselves in the greasy texture of oil pastels or the smears of poster paint. No one bothered me in art class and often the kids admired my creations. Some were probably jealous, but hey, that didn’t stop my quiet swell of pride.

“Look at what Nerine did,” meant the world to me.

Later, they’d pull my hair, hide my things or they’d lift my skirt so everyone could see my knickers or laugh at my hairy legs. Or they’d gang up on me to say horrible things about me being a nerd, that I had to wear braces or that I was Afrikaans. (As if my culture or me doing well in tests somehow qualified me to be less than human.)

In hindsight, I think Miss W wasn’t very happy either. She’d had polio as a child and consequently walked with a terrible limp. Teaching art to a bunch of privileged, snotty middle class kids during the 1980s and 1990s probably hadn’t exactly been her dream job. Those little trolls would rather have been doing other things than learning about pattern, colour and composition.

I thrived, however. Miss W’s classes numbered among the bright sparks from my childhood that I’ll carry with me ’til the day I die.

“An artist is a thinking and feeling person,” she told us. Miss W wrote that on the blackboard and the words stayed there permanently.

She explained what it meant, but the trolls just sniggered. Someone passed comments on how the teacher was trying to be “all deep and stuff”.

Miss W’s words remain etched on my mind, though. I often think about them as an adult, when one of my mentors discussed how our lives should be a balance of passion and precision. How we change the world and ourselves is not an exact science. Inspiration and reason need to work hand in hand.

I keep coming back to art. Though I studied graphic design, majoring in illustration in photography, I ended up as a commercial features sub-editor at a newspaper publisher. I spend a large portion of my day worrying about fixing advertising copy and checking that clients send big-enough images. Any layout work I do is mostly template based. Not very exciting, but I earn a living, and I guess that counts for something. I find ways in my spare time to make words, music and art to get me by.

Art sustains me. It feeds my soul.

My education in graphic design gave me an appreciation for the visual arts and communication. I might not *like* certain artists or styles much, but I can appreciate them on their own merits. I admit a fondness for the Arts and Crafts movement, as well as the aesthetics of Bauhaus. I love letting “Less is more” roll off my tongue. (Thank you, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.) It’s become something of a mantra for me when I design my book covers. I’ve considered the ethics behind the hyperrealism in contemporary advertising, and how we manipulate consumers with clever words and pictures. I am passionate about good design. I love art in all its forms.

So, I admire professional artists. People whose entire lives are consumed by that which sets them apart from everyone else. Who make art and get paid to do so.

Because, once upon a time, there was a little girl sitting in art class who thought she’d one day make a living painting pictures. That she'd be an artist. Today she’s moving little blocks of text around on a white screen and positioning them with images of houses for sale. Or she aligns photos of botoxed faces with captions for society pages celebrating events she’ll never be invited to. She’s still not one of the cool kids, but can’t bring herself to care. Or rather, she realises that hanging out with the cool kids isn’t all that it’s cracked out to be, and she’s happy in her little world.

I might not *like* a professional artist’s work, but when I don’t like his or her art, I ask myself these questions: “Why don’t I like this art? What does this say about me? Do I hate his art because of my own subjective aesthetics? Or do I dislike his art because I feel that he fails to create something of objective worth?”

Art is a complex subject. You cannot please all of the viewers all of the time. (Like an author can't please all of the readers, all of the time.) More often than not, your dislike of a subject is a reflection of your Self. How you choose to respond to art shows to the rest of the world who you are.

In that, the artist is a magician, because he has held up a mirror.

Now the question is, dear reader are you a troll, or are you a thinking and feeling person?

Desperate Romantics #TV #miniseries #reviews

I've meant to watch the six-part BBC series, Desperate Romantics, one for a while now since the Pre-Raphaelite and the related Arts and Crafts movement numbered among my most inspirational when I was studying art. A little background about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (PRB). The ringleaders were Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais, but there were other notables associated with and influenced by the movement. 

In essence, the Pre-Raphaelites rejected the artistic style of the time, which was heavily influenced by the classic artists Michaelangelo and Raphael et al, and sought to create art that was expressive, sensual, emotive and colour-filled as opposed to the oppressively dark and heavy painting styles of the time. Subject matter also changed, often harking toward the medieval and heavily influenced by nature.

Perhaps two of my favourite Pre-Raphaelite works of art feature the luminous muse Elizabeth Siddal. The first is Ophelia by John Everett Millais which depicts the doomed Ophelia floating downriver before she drowns. The second is the Beata Beatrix which was painted by Gabriel Dante Rossetti after the death of his wife, Elizabeth Siddal. 

As for the series, it was entirely delightful, starring the rather lush Aidan Turner (Rossetti), Rafe Spall (Holman Hunt), Samuel Barnett (Millais), Sam Crane (Fred Walters), and the rather captivating Amy Manson (Elizabeth Siddal), among others. Granted, I don't know all *that* much about the actual history related to the PRB's personal lives, so I vaguely knew "this won't end well" when I went into it.

Plus points subtle touches of humour, some wonderfully witty dialogue and beautiful styling if you're interested Victorian-era drama. This mini-series serves to remind exactly how steeped in custom the Victorians were. Reputation was everything, and if wanted to cock a snook at society, your path was fraught with difficulty. As an introduction to the world of the PRB I think this is a good departure point, but I do feel that they took more than quite a few liberties with actual history. 

Nevertheless, Desperate Romantics was eminently watchable, and has left me with a number of TBR titles on my book list. It's light, witty but has an undercurrent of tragedy. There are times when I'd really like to kick Rossetti hard – really, really hard – but his passion for creative expression is inspiring. 

Leon Botha: artist

Some folk reading this blog may already know Leon Botha, who featured in Die Antwoord’s music video Enter the Ninja. I first encountered him on that social networking site we all love to hate but can’t seem to stay the hell away from, when I saw some of the enigmatic art he creates.

When Leon and I started chatting, we fast realised we had a lot in common with regard to some of our interests and, how’s this for a piece of synchronicity, we both had almost-identical tattoos completed independently within weeks of each other, at the same tattoo parlour. While I sport the Egyptian Neteru Set and Horus on my left and right wrists respectively, Leon has paid homage to Thoth.

Not long ago, Capetonians could also view another aspect of Leon’s art, when he collaborated with South African photographer Gordon Clark to present the Who Am I? exhibition, which challenged people to examine the perceptions, preconceptions and values.

I’d like to thank Leon Botha for stopping by my blog and share some of his thoughts.

Tell me more about your creative process and how you approach painting.
It depends… Generally I mostly live in my head. I am always drawing parallels between things in my head, working on some concept or interpreting some thought or feeling I get from anything such as music, books or some other experience, visually. (It’s not really as exciting as it sounds, it’s just how my mind works.) Usually, at some point I would deem any one of them ready, and I will attempt to “bring it” into this realm. As I’m doing this, of course it takes on a life of itself as it suddenly needs to abide to certain laws, and the difficulty for me is usually to shape it into a compromise. It can be very frustrating, but it is also why I don’t plan things or draw them out too thoroughly beforehand.

I can also simply desire to use a specific colour, subject or theme, and will just flow with it.
Technically, I use a lot of strong colours, as well as darkness, sharp lines and many layers as a sort of “dry brush” technique. So acrylics work fine for me because it’s so quick drying. I mostly use canvas, and generally don’t do any drawings beforehand.

So, when and where did you meet Gordon Clark?
He saw me in town and wanted to work with me, but somehow lost sight of me. Later he mentioned me to a friend who is a curator of a gallery in town. Ironically I was about to open my second solo exhibition there and she gave him my details and we set up a meeting.

What went into the creative process for the Who Am I? exhibition?
A lot of conversations… We generally had a similar idea as far as direction, in which we wanted to go, and we just pulled a whole lot of ideas from conversations regarding all aspects of life.

Sometimes, adapting the idea, and sometimes coming up with new ones while working on location. We were not restricted or limiting ourselves in any case. So the whole flow or creative process went very harmoniously.

What do you like about hip hop?
It is kind of like the melting pot of all music genres. It is not limited in scope, and in its essence, not really a genre at all.

It is as much a question as a definition.

Although my musical taste is certainly not limited to it, it has the certain “edge” of all other music that I enjoy.

As I say, it is not just a genre of music, but a way of life, a certain edge, attitude and way to view the world, which opened my perception to a lot of things, and influenced practically everything that I do.

And Die Antwoord? What have some of the after-effects of Enter the Ninja been?
Locally people seem to remember me from “that video”, and globally there has been a rise of interest to me/my work online. I have sold a few paintings overseas since then, as well.

Tell us a little about what you’re reading at the moment.
I’ve been reading a lot about Alchemy in the last years. The symbols and archetypes, and how the relativity of reality (our perception) can always be used in a way that “purifies” our thoughts, or enables us to grow as individuals (however one may see this). And not to see things as simply “good” or “bad”, “yin” or “yang”, but to merge them. To over-stand that our greatest blessing, is often inherited in what we perceived to be our greatest curse.

How do you approach time?
I try to grab it with both hands. So much, to the extend that I always go to bed way into the AM, and as the pendulum swings, I wake up way too late as well. (I will never be bored, and honestly don’t understand how one can claim to be that in this day and age).

All there ever is, or will be, is the present moment. Whenever I am able to really be aware of this, I am harmonious. And whenever I am not, I am only on my way to realise it again. There is nowhere else to go… The past was once the future, and the future will at once be the past. And while the transition happens in this moment, it is way too quickly to fully embrace or define anyway. This is why time is an illusion. I try to be less logical in my approach, and more receptive or acting on feeling, because things seem to be speeding up more and more to me, and I can’t keep up.

What, in your opinion, is the most important aspect of being human?
I think the ability to interpret our thoughts and experiences in such a way that it adds things like meaning, value, purpose, etc. and that we continue to evolve or grow in our interpretations of these. It enables us to always expand our universe, both inner and outer. We can always look forward to something exciting, as the ratio between our questions and answers continue to evolve (and in essence provide for itself) as we seek and find, into the beautiful mystery that is life. Yeah, life is beautiful when I stay in its mystery as oppose to it’s “know” –ledge.

Useful links:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/solarize-liquidswords/
http://www.myspace.com/solarize_liquidswords

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Nerine Dorman' s blogging news...

Book one and two of my Khepera series are now available IN PRINT, in South Africa. No excuses about not reading on screen. Support a starving author so she can create more mayhem as a full-time occupation.
http://www.kalahari.net/page_templates/searchresults.aspx?searchText=Nerine+Dorman&navigationid=632&displayShop=books

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Call for submissions. I'm currently on the prowl for fiction across all genres for a Titanic-inspired line of novellas and novels. See the link below for further information.
http://nerinedorman.blogspot.com/2010/05/call-for-submissions-titanic-inspired.html

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And, if you reckon you've got what it takes to write a good horror or dark fantasy short story, we'd like to hear about it for the SA HORRORFEST's Bloody Parchment short fiction competition. Details here: http://bloodyparchment.blogspot.com/