Green Dresses

It’s Mother’s Day.  We’re out for a hike in Klipriviersberg Nature Reserve south of town.  As we walk along, Quince comments, “Look mommy, everything looks so dull.”  I know what she means.  It is mid-autumn and the flashy, easy allure of summer is gone. But I want her to see the loveliness of nature at this time of year -- in the subtle, muted golds and greens and browns of autumn.  

I bend down, and point to the meadow of tall grasses.  “Look Quince, how many shades of green can you see in those grasses?”   She is on board immediately.   She begins pointing them out.  “I want that one in my wedding dress, and that one, and that one.”  I sigh and pause for a moment.   

I take a deep breath.   And then take this on too.   “Well, which ones would you want in your graduation dress?  And I mean your graduation when you get your doctorate.”  

Puppy Diaries Day 23: Guard Puppies

It's nighttime. Bill is out of town.  Kids are in bed.   Our security alarm goes off. Often I accidentally set it off but this time I didn't. So when our security company (named very militarily CSS Tactical) calls to see if everything is okay, I say I'm not sure and ask them to send the officers out to check around the property just to make sure there are no bad guys lurking about (for my non-South Africa friends, this is all perfectly normal.. . all perfectly insane.)  So, the CSS Tactical officers come, bulletproof vests on, holsters unsnapped.  Using the secret code, they let themselves in our electric gate, and with torches drawn, walk around the garden checking every inch of the property.   I have the puppies inside so they won’t freak out.  But through the window, they see the guys walking around the yard.  They freak out. 

Once the CSS Tactical guys leave, I let the freaked-out puppies outside to investigate.  Shaka, tail high, fur raised, barks his little macho head off.   Sniffing around, barking, sniffing, gradually increasing his distance from the house, doing his own check of the property, following the trail of the “intruders”.  Peppa barks too, but from the safety of inside, her tail tucked between her legs in fear. I can almost hear her thinking, “Please, please, please, don’t let there be anybody out there.” 

Then for the rest of the night, they are jittery, startling easily at imagined sounds, breaking into duets of barking.  My eyes follow theirs out the glass door, staring at dangerous nothingness.  On edge myself,  I take the panic button down off the wall and put it in my pocket. I let Shaka out to do a few more rounds of the perimeter as the night progresses.

As I sit there on my sofa, the three of us jittery and on edge, I realize there is something wrong with this picture.  I’m pretty sure it is commonly held belief that dogs, in addition to the high walls, electric fence, and alarm system,* are a valuable addition to one’s security measures.  So how come I find myself sitting there, two dogs by my side, feeling more unsafe and nervous than I have in almost two years of living here?

Do you think it is because they are only Guard Puppies?   Please tell me that as they mature, they will learn to distinguish between real and imagined danger.    Tell me that they will learn to remain calm and collected until it is appropriate not to be.   Tell me one day they will actually make me feel more secure not less.  Because if not, the “con” column on this dog-owning thing is growing dangerously close to a critical tipping point. Tipping to what I am not exactly sure. But tipping to something not good. 

* For almost the whole time I have been here I have been meaning to do a blog about the incredible lengths we go here in the Northern suburbs to keep ourselves safe.  About how insane it is.   Maybe I haven't written it yet because I don't like to think how quickly I embraced it all and adapted to the insanity.  

The Tables Astonishingly, Disturbingly, Sweetly Turned

Yesterday, Alexander begged me to play this game that he and his mate, Tutty, invented over the weekend. You stand on opposite sides of the trampoline and throw a tennis ball at one another. The object is to make a throw that bounces at least once on the trampoline and is hard enough or tricky enough so that the other player cannot catch it and it goes behind him/her.

I’m not a very good thrower. I blame my father.  As far as I’m concerned that fell directly in his column of parental responsibilities.  But being a mature grown-up, I took matters into my own hands, and have tried to learn as an adult. I’ve studied others as they throw. I’ve asked friends for tips.  I even hired my basketball coach once to teach me how to throw a baseball.   None of it seemed to make a difference and so I still have that classic, awkward, completely ineffectual throw. I think you probably know exactly what I am talking about.

But I can catch. I have good eye-hand coordination.  I'm proud of my ability to snag a ball out of the air.

So I’m playing, apologizing for my lame throws that miss the trampoline entirely, but I’m confident in my defense.   I catch some and some go past me.   Once I get the hang of it, I can pay more attention, and do you know what I see?   Alexander is taking some heat off his throws!  He is putting only about 50% zing on the ball!   

I play on, but inside I am thinking WHEN IN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN!!

I, the mother, the parent, the adult, am supposed to be taking something off my throws so my little boy won’t get discouraged, won’t give up, will keep playing and get better.   When did this natural order of things get reversed???   Inwardly, I am mad, and want to yell at him “Give me what you got, I can handle it!” But the truth is I probably can’t. Already, I am only stopping about half of his half-zing balls.   Alexander, wisely, doesn’t give me what he’s got because he knows, in fact, I can’t handle it. And if he did, then what?  I will get discouraged, I will give up and I won’t play anymore.   (Okay, I know this doesn't speak well of my character, but what's new?)

Alexander's patience with my ineptitude is remarkable.  But let’s be clear - Alexander has some definite self-interest at heart here.  He really loves this game and he wants someone to play with when his mates aren’t around.   It behooves him to be mindful of my fragile ego, to take care that I don’t get discouraged, to build me up ever so carefully so I will always want to play.  (Just like I tried to do with him with tennis. Except my patience with Alexander in that regard was less than remarkable.  My punishment for opposite-of-remarkable patience?   He hates the game.  But that is another blog.)

But whatever Alexander's motivation, I find this reversal of roles astonishing and disturbing and disconcerting.  It brings the future too frighteningly close.   What’s next – him cutting my meat into little pieces so I don’t choke?

I am not ready.  I cannot have it.  I am in a full on search for someone who can (in secret) teach me to throw  my own zingers, and pride evaporated, to catch.

Poets, and Painters, and Dancers. . .

I haven't really come up with a good way to preface this piece, so I decided it didn't need prefacing!  Just jumping right on in.  

I am part of a group, which we have imperfectly called the White Accountability Group, that is, among other things, committed to action white people can/must take to end the injustice of racism.  A couple of weeks ago, we came together over a weekend for a facilitated exploration of what our way forward is going to be.   Several times throughout the weekend, because race/racial injustice is a tangled and complex issue, one of us would not be able to find the words to express what we were thinking or feeling.  We came to the conclusion that for some thoughts, maybe there just aren’t the words, or perhaps not words in the English language, or perhaps thoughts that just can't be expressed using conventional conversation.

Another conclusion we came to – or really just  a reminder of what we already knew – was that core to all our work needs to be the practice of making authentic connections with other people, with other white people and with people of color.  To transcend our divisions – many of which we as human beings have dsyfunctionally constructed – by taking the risk to connect from our true, most authentic, human selves. 

The next weekend , totally unrelated, or so I thought, I attended my first Jozi House of Poetry – a monthly poetry session held at POPArt in Maboneng . The audience was beautifully diverse – in all manner of ways.  I knew a few folks, but none well (except my family which I had dragged along).  For over an hour we were transported by the three featured poets who more performed than read their poetry. 

As I sat with these virtual strangers, and the poets took us on soaring flights through the human condition, I noticed we would together shake our heads, smile, laugh, sigh in collective recognition of the world the poets painted for us.  I found the last poet dazzling.  She had no mercy for us her audience as she stroked and thrashed us with her words.   Several times I sucked in my breath, only exhaling when I realized I had stopped breathing.  At the conclusion of one particularly tumultuous ride, still coming down, we the audience could only muster a weak clap.  Our poet, so wise, said “you don’t have to clap, just breathe.”  We that represented the racial spectrum, spanned decades, men and women, straight and gay had been so taken, so moved that we had collectively forgotten to breathe.      

And it was here where my two weekends came together.  Through poetry, words exquisitely strung together liberated from rules and constraints, these artists expressed that which is not expressable in everyday language.  And these poets spoke about that which is human and universal, about what we all feel and know, and thus profoundly connected us across our differences.  

As I sat there, amongst all these people whose breath had been taken away by these poet magicians, I had one of those all too rare aha moments.   I know I come to it late, I know many, many others have come to this before, but I finally understood the role that art – poetry, dance, paintings, music  - plays, must play, in helping us to explore and understand and express those things which keep us separate and estranged from one another, and from our own humanity.  Spoken language, when not used with the care of a poet, will betray us by its inadequacy to cover this difficult terrain.  We must turn to art, paintings, dance, music, sculpture to help us understand how we find ourselves here, so estranged and hurt.  We must turn to art to help us complete our difficult conversations.  And we must turn to art to allow us blessedly to dwell in our connectedness.

Thank you poets, and painters, and dancers for helping us, we humans who have so damaged ourselves by our false divisions, grow whole again.   

Reliving the Joy and the Trauma - Why having new puppies is likehavingnew babies

I wrote the following during early days in our puppy ownership.   I have been so struck by how similar my experience and the resulting feelings are to the ones I had during early days of parenting new babies.  Overwhelmed, smitten, resentful, shocked, totally incompetent, proudly competent.  Below are a few that I captured as I was experiencing them.  The good news is that two weeks in, unlike with new human babies, most of these feelings have mellowed as I get the hang of this puppy raising thing.  

1)   Especially in the beginning, it all seems so ridiculously overwhelming and like such a bad idea. We jumped into this project without a clue what we were getting ourselves into.  I recognize this feeling -- I've been here before.  It is the feeling one has when you embark on a brand new venture and you are at the bottom of the learning curve - only from this early vantage point, there is no gently sloping curve in sight.  It is all a long, unforgiving line, straight up. 

2)  As I am getting ready for bed at the end of the day, I realize I have gotten NOTHING done.  Nothing that I planned on anyway.   Nothing constructive that I used to get done, pre-puppy.   For a person like me who gets a lot of pleasure (okay, maybe an out-of-proportion amount of pleasure) from checking off those “to do’s”, this is a very unnerving way to live one’s life.

3)     By scaling aforementioned learning harsh, unforgiving straight-up line, I find myself acquiring an amazing number of new skills.  Sometimes at the end of the day, the feeling of being overwhelmed is mitigated a bit by a sense of satisfaction at my mastery of these valuable life skills.   De-fleaing, de-worming, knowing which kinds of food result in what kind of poop skills.  All now nicely incorporated into my CV.

4)     I spend way, way, way too much time thinking about poop, planning my day around poop times, looking at poop, worrying about abnormal poops.   My mind has turned to poop, all clever thoughts have been pushed out.  (aren't you glad I didn't feel compelled to illustrate this one with a photo?)

 5)     I also spend inordinate amounts of time watching my babies. Watching them play, watching them sleep,watching them chew bones.  It is all extraordinarily fascinating.  In a way that no one else’s puppies ever were or ever will be.

  6)     Suddenly, things which must have been there all along become visible to my new dog-owning eyes.  Pet stores, chew toys at Pick N Pay, dogs behind every single bloody gate in our neighborhood, that insist on barking at us as we take our cowering Peppa for a walk. 




   7)     Their stuff is all over the house – and the garden.   I can’t keep order. I decide there are no systems of organization invented to manage the chaos.

   

   8)   Worry, worry, worry.  Take them to the vet or just wait a few days?   Future psychopath dog or just normal puppy behaviour?   Crate training or not?  Worry that I'm worrying too much.  Worry that I'm not worrying enough. 

9)  Differences in spousal personalities are put in sharp relief.  Suffice it to say, I am high strung, Bill is low strung.

10)  I find myself tip-toeing around when they are napping not for their sake but for my own. 

11)  I am so so so happy to leave them behind and get a break.  I am moderately happy to come back and see their smiling little puppy faces. (just kidding – of course, I am so so so happy to come back to them.)

   12)   I am awed by the brilliance of mother nature in making them so darned adorable so that no matter how naughty they are I won’t kill them.   Doubling that cuteness when they are sleeping and at their most vulnerable is sheer mother nature genius. 

     

Colored prayers, Imithandazo enembibala, Gekleurde gebede

We came upon this, clothes flapping in the breeze, laundry hung out to dry on a line zig zagging down a pretty alleyway in the middle of downtown Stellenbosch.   We stood and debated, was this real, some family’s clothes hung on a line here in town, in the tourist district, high up by the second floor?   They were real clothes.  Ordinary, very usable, real clothes.  Real clothes pins.    But it made no sense.  The lines were barely in reach of windows, and the lines were fixed, no pulleys to crank the clothes out and in.   And really, why would laundry be hanging in a commercial district?  We came to the conclusion it must be art.    

It incensed my kids. Especially Quince.  Why would someone waste perfectly good clothes like this when a person could be wearing them.  “Look at that cute little flowered skirt.   I would wear that!”  And how stupid to have all those clothes pretend drying on the line up there when there are so many people down here who need clothes.   I get why it made no sense to her.  I get why she hated it.  I get why it made her angry. 

But I loved it.   I loved  the movement, and the colors and the patterns.   The patterns on individual clothes and the patterns of them all together.   The shapes they made hanging there.  How the breeze caught the clothes and transformed them into new shapes.   A dress puffing up with air, suddenly becoming a twirling bell.  I loved how the blue sky and white buildings played their part.

Above all, though, I loved that this artist invited us to seek beauty in the ordinary.  To be present for the beauty in the moment.  To open ourselves to the richness that is everyday.

P.S.  I also get why the woman who washes and hangs some other family’s laundry for a living, and then goes home and does the same for her own family, likely by hand, might find this the most ridiculous idea of art ever.   We know life is not black and white, but grey. . .  and very, very colorful. 

Colored prayers, Imithandazo enembibala, Gekleurde gebede

The artist, Jacques Coetzer,  says, “A drive through the country side is often meditative, with mountains, field and sky drifting past.   Occasionally a flash of colour will sign domestic life, washing hung outside on a fence outside a homestead or labourers’ cottages.  Merrily blown about, strings of brightly hued clothing connect people and landscape, and so the very ordinary and intimate becomes public. Clotheslines, like prayer flags, can be imagined to send out personal mediations on the wind.”   

Art and Beauty in the Joburg CBD - Part 1

I can say, without hyperbole, that going on 4 PAST Experiences tours has transformed the way I look at and live in the city of Johannesburg. Please don't misunderstand. I loved Jozi, this City of Gold, before I ever stepped foot on one of the tours (Shoot, I love the whole damn country). 

 But sure, I had heard the stories, particularly about the CBD -downtown Johannesburg - and the surrounding areas. Dangerous, crime-ridden, gone to wrack and ruin. But I've lived in cities all of my adult life and I know every city has sections of town that get written off, mythed to unimaginable levels of danger and disrepair, invisibly cordoned off by fear -- by those who don't live there.

I'm not naive; I know there is aching urban poverty, overcrowding, inadequate service delivery, run-down streets, and the accompanying despair and crime. But I also knew that had to be only one part of the story. There had to be life and light and beauty - there always is.   I just needed a guide to show me. Enter PAST Experiences, and in particular, tour guides extraordinaire, Jo Buitendach, and Tania Ollson. 

During the third tour I went on, aptly named Creative Jozi, Jo walked us around the CBD, primarily with a focus on the public art. Turns out the CBD is chock-a- block full of public art; it's like walking through an outdoor art museum specializing in, well, everything. And it's fantastic. But in some ways, the art serves just as an excuse to get those of us who don't live there out and about in the city, inviting us to walk side by side with people who do live and make their way in this part of town, to see and feel the color and vibrancy, the beauty and energy of everyday living. And thus, to take one small step in making our way beyond those myths and stories which keep us so painfully separate.

(I know the above sounds a bit like a promotion, but I promise you, I am getting no kickback from PAST Experiences.)

If you'd like to actually see the photos of the art and some of my silly musings- and I hope you will because I think you'll be amazed of course not by my musings but by the art--  you could click on this link to get to that blog. Art and Beauty in the Joburg CBD - Part 2

And if you'd like to learn more about PAST Experiences, click here to go to their website.  PAST Experiences

Art and Beauty in the Joburg CBD -- Part 2

"Public Art provides a means of celebrating Johannesburg’s unique culture, diverse communities and rich history. It offers shared symbols which build social cohesion, contribute to civic pride and help forge a positive identity for the city. Through this art, the City projects its collective identity and vision, while individuals and community groups in neighbourhoods are also empowered to express their unique identities. Public art supports the creative industries, creating opportunities for artists, designers and fabricators. Further, public art acts as a catalyst for development and economic growth through raising confidence, attracting visitors and stimulating investment." (City of Joburg, Public Art Policy document, 2003) 

Taken from Newtown Heritage Trail website

I can't top the above.  I'll just say, the following are photos and my thoughts about some of the public art located in the Johannesburg Central Business District. I took these photos while on a PAST Experiences tour, Creative Jozi.  Jo Buitendach was our guide.

One of the things I love about Joburg's public art is that some of it is almost secret, seen only if you know where to look. Soon after the tour started from Market Theater's parking lot, Jo walked us out on Miriam Makeba Street and had us look up and over another building.   There was South African photographer Dale Yudelman's "Joburg Man."  The photograph, of a giant man walking in the city, is itself giant, but easily passed by if you do not know to turn your head and look up.

(As an aside, I did a quick google search on Dale to find out the proper spelling of his surname - not the Utelman I had written in my notes - and came across one reviewer's description of Yudelman's photography - fictive truth. Perfectly put.)

On a previous PAST Experiences' tour, I was introduced to the graffiti art of internationally known South African street artist, Rasty.  In that fabulous way of "you see what you know," I now see his distinctive mural art all over the city.   Even better, I am now tuned into street art in a new way making city life a little more colorful.

And of course we have the famous heads all over Newtown.   560 of them.  All different. Designed to reflect African diversity.   By four artists, Americo Guambe, Petrus Matsolo, Dan Guambe, and Joe Matolo.   Jo tells us that the heads have been carved from old railway sleepers .  I have heard previously the story that these heads were originally put in as a "readiness test" for rejuvenation of the Newtown area, the theory being that if the heads were not vandalized then it was a sign that the area was prime for rejuvenation.  So, the story goes that the heads were not touched and rejuvenation of Newtown as an arts and cultural mecca for the city got underway.

    

Markets, to me, are their own form of art.  So this one, with the mural behind it is like getting a two-for-one.  The wares, previously worn clothes, are laid out on cloths on the ground, and interestingly, all the vendors are male.   If you look to the bottom left of the mural, you see a depiction of contemporary artist, Mary Sibande.  It is said she wanted her picture on the mural so she could look out for the women who come to buy at this all male-vendored market.

(Turns out this stop was a three-for-one for me.  I, being fairly new to South Africa, didn't actually know who Mary Sibande is.  Again, turned to Google.  What a bonus to learn of this Johannesburg-based young artist and learn about her amazing art!  Joburg buildings wrapped in the image of Sibande's creation, Sophie, a domestic worker!  Sadly for me it was up and down before I ever arrived to this fabulous city.)

This piece, installed on a large traffic island and designed to welcome visitors to this part of the city installed , is one of my favorites for its sheer whimsy.   Apparently, folks from the nearby Chinatown are known for feeding pigeons.  In recognition of this, or maybe in celebration, the artist created 3 large metal origami pigeons. Especially delightful is that, in contrast to the typical view that pigeons defile public art, this artist, by attaching handy perching spokes to his metal pigeons, invites the living ones to come enjoy.

While I was taking photos, a man was there spreading bird food out on the ground in a long curving line (which is why none of the pigeons in the photo are on the perches.)  The birds spread themselves along the wavy path, forming a live piece of flowing art especially lovely juxtaposed next to the angular origami pigeons.  When we came back through toward the end of the tour, one of my fellow tour mates ran through the pigeons sending them fluttering as one up into the air.  What a beautiful addition of movement to this piece - or maybe I was just so taken by all the art we had seen, that by this point a piece of rubbish blowing in the wind would have seemed like art to me.




Not public art per se, but I loved the old and the new of these buildings holding the same space.

It is no accident that I look like a child sitting on the lap of Walter Sisulu.  This piece, featuring Walter and Albertina Sisulu, and entitled Parents of the Nation, sits in Ferreirasdorp, a section of town where many anti-apartheid activists worked and lived. Fittingly, this piece is installed across the street from the building, pictured above, where the Sisulus lived.  

Seriously, how can you not love a city that would do this!!!!   All the Rea Vaya (public bus system) stations are adorned with depictions of city street scenes, each by a different artist. Take a look next time you pass a station.

There is plenty of art from the old days too.  These etchings, stretched mural-like across the base of an old bank building, depict the building of the nation - from a very particular viewpoint of course.  Notice the man in the hat above with his commanding finger point.

Pretty door knobs on one of those old buildings. No more need be said.

Okay, imagine walking along beside this building, beautiful in that solid, imposing way this venerable architecture can be . . .

You come across this sign outside the door. Super trendy, Super delicious. Who can resist? So you step in. 

And there, in the large round foyer, swirling sherbet paintings of gorgeous faces and hair, fanciful scissors and hairdryers, ribbons of whimsy surround you.   It is a wonderland.

You look up, and in some odd way, the ornate sky light still beautifully intact brings the light and air and magic of the new and modern into alignment with the heavy and solid and venerable of the old.

Full of joy from the M Cafe and Hair Salon, we move onto the mining quarter, with its large pedestrian plaza and numerous pieces of art, more traditional and probably recognizable by many Johannesburgians.

This fountain sculpture represents the first nugget of gold found
in Johannesburg.  

Check out the honoring of nuclear power - greek style.
Hmmm. . .

These friezes also depict the history of the nation.
Again, a very particular version.

These leaping impala,were originally in a nearby park.  After they were damaged (vandalized for the money the metal would bring) they were repaired and moved here in front of the Anglo Gold Building, where they are watched over by security cameras.   But how fun is this--each year at Christmas, Santa's sleigh is put behind the sculpture, and for a short time, the impala pretend to be reindeer.  

Scattered around the square are beautiful mosaics bringing color to the plaza floor. Many of them depict everyday street life such as taxis and markets.   Jo pointed out this one, depicting plates of fruit for sale.   How delightful, when about 10 minutes later as we crossed into another area, there in front of us was the inspiration for the mosaic.  ( in my mind, art in and of itself.)

We are nearing the end of our walk now and my eyes are open in a new way.  Everything has the element of art; everything is appearing a little more beautiful.   The plain wall enlivened by the graffiti art. The black and grey graffiti art enlivened by the red sacks of onions.  

On a previous PAST Experiences walk, (this one of Pieter Roos Park), also near the end of
the tour, I had begun to see everything as art, so I snapped this photo
of the orange power box surrounded by razor wire, back-dropped
 by the verdant green grass.   Then, imagine my thrill when I saw. . .

. . . this power box near Bassline in Newtown protected by intentional art.  Love it!

I want to end on this one.  The tour is over and I am walking to my car parked near Market Theater.  On this small street, practically an alleyway, is this stunning mural, transforming the building from plain and barren to lively and beautiful.  Much as the art and people of the CBD transform this part of the city to lively and beautiful.