Versindaba
~ die Afrikaanse digkuns in een kraal ~

“Daar is ʼn skildery deur Klee, getiteld Angelus Novus. ʼn Engel in die afbeelding lyk of hy stip oor iets nadink, maar op die punt is om daarvandaan weg te beweeg. Sy oë is gesper, sy mond oop, sy vlerke gespan. Dít is hoe die engel van die geskiedenis moet lyk. Sy aangesig is na die verlede toe gedraai. Waar iets vir ons soos ʼn ketting van opeenvolgende gebeure lyk, sien hy ʼn enkele katastrofe wat onophoudelik soos wrakstukke voor sy voete neergesmyt word. Die engel sou graag wou verpoos, die dooies opwek en dit wat gebreek is weer heelmaak. Maar ʼn storm woed vanuit die Paradys, het hom aan die vlerke beet en waai so onstuimig dat die engel hulle nie weer kan sluit nie. Die storm dryf hom genadeloos die toekoms in, waarop sy rug gekeer is, terwyl die rommelhoop voor hom ten hemele aangroei. Hierdie storm is dit wat ons vooruitgang noem.”

Hierdie is my Afrikaanse vertaling van een van Walter Benjamin se veel aangehaalde aanhalings. Dit kom uit Über den Begriff der Geschichte. Dalk klink dit so lomp omdat Afrikaans te naby aan Duits is.

Die verwysing is natuurlik na Paul Klee, wat deel van Kandinsky se Blaue Reiter-groep was en later ʼn dosent aan die Bauhaus was. Sylvia Plath het ʼn paar gedigte geskryf wat deur van Klee se skilderye en etse geïnspireer is. Op ʼn keer is Klee gevra wat hy werklik sou wou doen… of wat die hoogste vorm van kuns is… of iets soortgelyks. Hy was ʼn skilder, het ʼn gesonde belangstelling in musiek gehad en het gedigte geskryf. Sy antwoord was die poësie.

Die vroeë moderniste interesseer my op die oomblik. Dalk is dit omdat hulle ʼn eeu gelede aan die werk was. Dalk is dit omdat hulle in soortgelyke tye as ons gelewe het, ook nie bewus was van die oorloë wat sou kom nie. Dalk is dit maar net omdat ek aanklank by die estetika vind - die pragtige geboue wat onbeskaamd aan ʼn beter toekoms geglo het. Daardie elegante lyne beteken nou iets heeltemal anders, omdat die engel reeds verbygewaai het. Ons sit iewers op een van die rommelhope, kyk hoe die vlerke fladder.

Wat noem ons hierdie tyd?

Die volgende is ʼn vertaling van een van Klee se gedigte, deur Anselm Hollo. Ek het dit op die internet opgespoor:

INDIVIDUALITY

Individuality?
is not of the substance of elements.
It is an organism, indivisibly
occupied
by elementary objects of a divergent character:
if you
were to attempt division, these parts
would die.

Myself,
for instance: an entire dramatic
company.

Enter an ancestor, prophetic;
enter a hero, brutal
a rake, alcoholic, to argue
with a learned professor.
A lyrical beauty, rolling her eyes
heavenward, a case
of chronic infatuation –
enter a heavy father,
to take care of that.
enter a liberal uncle — to arbitrate. . . .
Aunt Chatterbox gossiping in a corner.
Chambermaid Lewdie, giggling.

And I, watching it all,
astonishment in my eyes.
Poised, in my left hand
a sharpened pencil.

A pregnant woman!, a mother
is planning
her entrance –
Shushhh! you
don’t belong here
you
are divisible!
She fades.

Versindaba se maand van die liefde kan nie verbygaan voordat iemand nie na Nick Cave se lesing oor die liefdeslied verwys het nie - “The secret life of the love song”. Hy verwys daarin na Lorca en “duende”. Hier is ʼn kort aanhaling daaruit:

‘In his brilliant lecture entitled “The Theory and Function of Duende” Frederico Garcia Lorca attempts to shed some light on the eerie and inexplicable sadness that lives in the heart of certain works of art. “All that has dark sound has duende”, he says, “that mysterious power that everyone feels but no philosopher can explain.” In contemporary rock music, the area in which I operate, music seems less inclined to have its soul, restless and quivering, the sadness that Lorca talks about. Excitement, often; anger, sometimes: but true sadness, rarely, Bob Dylan has always had it. Leonard Cohen deals specifically in it. It pursues Van Morrison like a black dog and though he tries to he cannot escape it. Tom Waits and Neil Young can summon it. It haunts Polly Harvey. My friend and Dirty 3 have it by the bucket load. The band Spiritualised are excited by it. Tindersticks desperately want it, but all in all it would appear that duende is too fragile to survive the brutality of technology and the ever increasing acceleration of the music industry. Perhaps there is just no money in sadness, no dollars in duende. Sadness or duende needs space to breathe. Melancholy hates haste and floats in silence. It must be handled with care.’

Lees die hele lesing hier.

Nick Cave

En dan, een van my gunsteling Nick Cave songs, “Are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?” Hier is die liriek:

I’ve felt you coming girl, as you drew near
I knew you’d find me, cause I longed you here
Are you my destiny? Is this how you’ll appear?
Wrapped in a coat with tears in your eyes?
Well take that coat babe, and throw it on the floor
Are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

As you’ve been moving surely toward me
My soul has comforted and assured me
That in time my heart it will reward me
And that all will be revealed
So I’ve sat and I’ve watched an ice-age thaw
Are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built
Out of longing great wonders have been willed
They’re only little tears, darling, let them spill
And lay your head upon my shoulder
Outside my window the world has gone to war
Are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

O we will know, won’t we?
The stars will explode in the sky
O but they don’t, do they?
Stars have their moment and then they die

There’s a man who spoke wonders though I’ve never met him
He said, “He who seeks finds and who knocks will be let in”
I think of you in motion and just how close you are getting
And how every little thing anticipates you
All down my veins my heart-strings call
Are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

En kyk die eenvoudige, maar mooi video hier.

Dis darem baie makliker om oor verval te skryf as nuwe infrastruktuur. En stories oor misdaad verkoop koerante soveel beter as goeie nuus oor die nuwe pad, trein, of die lofts in die middestad.

Saterdag ry ek deur Potchefstroom toe. Niel van Deventer, een van die digters in Nuwe Stemme 4, het ʼn geleentheid gereël vir hom, Kabous Verwoed, Wyn Roux (van Potchefstroom) en ek om ons gedigte voor te lees en ʼn paar deuntjies te brom.

Dís hoe ek toe Saterdagaand in die plek beland waar ek die laaste gedig in my bundel Retoer geskryf het; die River Café. Die kroegstoel waar ek gesit en skryf het, het ʼn uitsig op die wal van Potchefstroom se dam. Ek het sowat vier jaar gelede verder aan die gedig geskaaf tydens ʼn maandlange verblyf langs die Swanrivier in Perth. Dit gaan só:

DAM

Hier is ʼn dam
met ʼn grondwal -
sommer ʼn doodgewone, stowwerige
wal met sulke vaal wintergras,
jy weet.
Ook ʼn roeiboot
en ʼn motorboot
en verbleikte boeie
om astrante propellers en spane
van vislyne af weg te hou.
Hier kamp bont tente
en Jurgenskaravane
soos dit by ʼn staatsdiensoord
met mure wat afdop hoort.
Ver op die horison,
agter grasvelde en bloekombome,
staan kragdrade uit die weermag
van ʼn ander tyd met voete
wat in gelid roes.

Hoe lank
kan so ʼn grondwal bly staan?
wonder ek nou.
Hoe lank
kan klotsende water
nog aan hierdie verskansing
kabbel en knibbel?
Hoe lank
voor die damwal breek -
die tente opgevou word,
die woonwaens finaal op bakstene gaan staan,
die rondawels se nokke knak
en die hekwag vir die laaste keer
sy kasregister sluit, die kwitansieboek bêre
en ʼn ouer landskap terugkeer?

Vir eers
ry hier nog kinders
met sonstrepe in blonde hare
en polsende arms en musiek
wat by motors se vensters uithang.
Vir eers
verken onseker hande
nog tepels onder bloekombome.
Hoor jy die wind in die blare,
hoor jy die sonbesies in die gras?
Dis sulke
bekende geluide,
jy weet.
Deur blare maak die son
halfmane op ʼn skraal rug -
ʼn melkweg saam met sproete
en puisies op ʼn bleek vel.
Dit verbeel ek my nou,
want dit was lank gelede.
Ek staan nou buite
in die son. Met oë
op skrefies - deur ʼn donkerbril
kan ek nie meer sien nie,
nie meer wat in die skaduwee gebeur nie.
Om te kan lewe,
om te kan ontsnap,
om vir ʼn oomblik van alles te kan vergeet
en jou ore na binne te keer -
tuite hoor slegs die gesuis
van bloed deur are langs die brein,
die ritme van lewe
wat deur buise pols.
Om vir ʼn oomblik
my oë weer toe te knyp
en net      daar     te wees
in die skadu van bloekoms,
die reuk van varsgesnyde gras,
water wat op teer verdamp,
mense wat lag, ʼn motorboot se neurie
ver op die dam.

Sal daar waarskuwings wees?
Sal sirenes loei, benoude stemme
oor die radio mense vra om

asseblief
te
ontruim?

Of gaan ons bloot opstaan,
eendag miskien verbyry
en besef dat daar nou omgekeerde bote
tussen droë riete lê,
of dat die lelietrappers en die lepelaars
nou weg is?

Ek gaan sit weer op die kroegstoel met die uitsig oor die damwal. Met my vorige besoek het ek gesien daar word met stene en sement gewerskaf, maar ek was onder die indruk dat die bou-aktiwiteit iets met ʼn afgryslike Toskaanse kompleks te doen het en dat die laaste dae van die River Café se uitsig op die dam aangebreek het.

Dis toe nou nie die geval nie. Die grondwal is met ʼn pragtige nuwe konstruksie van klip en beton vervang. Francois, wat saam met sy vrou Marna die River Café besit, sê daar is nou selfs meer watervoëls.

Soms is dit lekker om jou eie woorde te moet sluk, ʼn bietjie soos die Jägermeissters wat ons laat die aand by die kroegtoonbank afgewurg het.

Oopmond-digters by Aardklop verlede jaar

Gisteraand gaan inloer by Love Books, waar Johannes van Jerusalem (tweede van regs in die foto hier bo) Johannes Prins (heel regs in die foto) van hulle gedigte voorgelees het, met Lize Wiid (saam met my in die foto hier onder, natuurlik ook aan die een aan die regterkant) wat die trekklavier speel vir atmosfeer. Sy het ook ʼn klok gebruik as musiekinstrument. Aan die begin van die aand het die winkel se alarm se bewegingsensor Johannesburg style saam musiek gemaak (“piep piep piiieeeeeeep”), veral as Johannes van Jerusalem ronddans terwyl hy sy gedigte voorlees. Hy praat oor die karakter Henry van Staden, “’n boer van my tyd,” wat ʼn poëtiese lewe lei, gedigte maak “van vergeet en aanmekaarsit” met sy “baard en ʼn boep en ʼn bles,” Henry van Staden, “wat net soos sy pa so bietjie meer aan die eenkant dra.” Johannes Prins het uit sy bundel een hart gelees, van sy besoek as joernalis aan ʼn plaas op die Wes-Rand waar veediewe ʼn man se verse se senings kom afkap het en die fetusse uitgesny het:

dit rym
nie sê die man,
skryf jy nou maar
net wat jy wil
meneer

my verse is uitgelewer

Daar was wyn, lekker eetgoed en ʼn hele spul elegante boheme. Die winkel se kandelaar is van staal, blompotte en wynglase aanmekaargesweis. Ons het na die tyd na ʼn sjebeen toe gegaan, pap en boerewors geëet. Nóg wyn gedrink. 

Foto: David Robson

Chris Letcher en Matthew van der Want. Foto: Toast Coetzer

Matthew van der Want en Chris Letcher se album Bignity is seker een van die beste musiekopnames wat nog in Suid-Afrika gemaak is. Dis deels weens die goeie produksie deur Lloyd Ross en die uitstekende ensemble musikante wat hulle ingespan het; van Ian Herman op perkussie (voorheen van Mr Mac and the Genuines, maar ook van Tananas, en te hore op Koos Kombuis se seminale Niemandsland), tot Warrick Sony op elektroniese effekte (van die Kalahari Surfers). Maar dis ook ʼn uitstekende CD omdat die twee musikante briljante songwriters is. Ek vind dat ek die CD weer en weer uithaal om na te luister.

Hier is een van hulle lirieke, Deadends:

Pick up all the deadends
I’d wake up with two lead ends
Sister if I could
Sister oh I would
Coz I’m pressed up to a door closed
And your future with a searchlight glows
Colder
Here
If you only knew
I’ve got a big heart
It’s bigger than you
It’s big enough for
Too many insults and
So much shame I’d
Fill up this silence
Just tell me what to say
Left me just a deadend
Now I’m broke but then I was mended
Sister if I could
Sister oh I would
Contempt I feel for their sense of justice this
Kangaroo court got caught in the headlights and
Your sense of punishment outweighs the crime
I’m charged much too highly by
A jury of my fears.

Gaan besoek gerus hulle webwerf.

Self kon ek nog nooit ʼn liefdesgedig of -lied skryf nie. Gaan dit oor die feit dat dit so maklik soetsappig klink in Afrikaans? Miskien is ek net nie ʼn ware digter nie. Die stomme Aphrodite se ruggraat het in elk geval lankal geknak onder die gewig van elke tweede (of dalk eerder elke) wannabe popster wat haar opsaal en laat rym met “you”, “blue”, “true”, “do” en “doobee doobee dooohooo”. In Afrikaans is dit “jaai”, “blaai”, “baai”, “maai” (”jy”, “bly”, “by”,  “my”, maar dis nie hoe sangers dit deesdae uitspreek nie; die “s” word ook as “sh” uitgespreek).

Soos met populêre lirieke, is die liefde seker die onderwerp waaroor die meeste gedigte geskryf is. Dis waarskynlik ook die onderwerp waaroor die meeste swak gedigte geskryf is. Dit is dus juis ʼn onderwerp waarvoor ek besonders lugtig is, deels omdat daar reeds so tussen al die suiker en pienk blommetjies deur sulke mooi liefdespoësie geskryf is.

Ek lees op die oomblik terug. Sondag was Abjater wat so lag se dag. Dis seker nie die tipe boek wat ʼn mens op Valentynsdag moet lees nie. Pluk later ewe lukraak bundels van die rak af, blaai rond.

Een van die eerstes wat ek raakvat is Jeanne Goosen se bundel, ʼn Uil vlieg weg. Natuurlik blaai ʼn mens eerste na “ons huil nooit nie/ ons twee huil nooit nie…” tot by “snags lê ons lywe inmekaar/ en ons vra nie vrae nie/ ons is mekaar se droefnis”. In Elders aan diens is daar ʼn lieflike, dubbelsinnige gedig wat Jeanne Goosen aan die waitress wat een aand vir haar kabeljou gebraai het in Stellenbosch skryf:

Sweetness
kom bly by my vannag
dan leer ek jou die rumba
die Charleston en die samba
Ek leer jou die jitterbug
die hush hush en die cha cha cha
en dan
daarna?
Dan croon ons tot dagbreek
Only the lonely

Hoe kan ʼn mens dan ook nie Die huis van die dowe raakvat nie? Veral die eerste afdeling; “Eet my woorde, trooswoorde”. Ag, hoe kry Breyten Breytenbach dit net so reg?

In teenstelling met Breytenbach se volmaakte liefdesgedigte staan Gert Vlok Nel s’n op krukke op ʼn perron iewers in die Karoo. Maar dis ewe mooi. Kan ʼn mens dit gedigte oor die liefde noem? Ek praat nou nie van die een met die lang titel waarin daar onder andere na “hart” en “smart” verwys word nie. Of sy tannie Rita, met haar “3 kinders en i treindrywerman met i wrok” en geloof, hoop en liefde wat oorbly, “maar die grootste hiervan was die hoop”. Of ”nee nee nie dit nie, nie noodwendig dít nie”:

dertig die dag toe hy laaste uit die kerk kom.
vaag in die wete en volop in vermoedens soos die confetti.
hoekom so? vra sy vrou, hoekom so donkerder in jou oë.
is my rok dan nie wit nie? en sy lag die vraag die mense in.
mens kan nooit van mense werklik weet nie.
wát weet nie? of hulle groei-of-nut-het-of-goed-is nie?
nee nee nie dit nie, nie noodwendig dít nie

Dalk is dit anti-liefdesgedigte. Selfs in “die koms van Ligia” is sy “donker & lig & lieg ineen”. Maar dit praat met ʼn mens op ʼn sekere vlak. Ek weet nie. Dalk is dit maar na Abjater wat so lag dat ek ʼn behoefte gehad het om weer Gert Vlok Nel te lees.

Gepraat van geloof, hoop, liefde en Gert Vlok Nel. Daar is natuurlik Raymond Carver se gedig “Hope”. Sjoe! Dalk kan ʼn mens dit ʼn haatgedig noem. Heel aan die einde van sy lewe kon hy darem skryf:

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Ek weet die idee is vir ons om oor een gedig te skryf. Ek kan nie kies nie. Daar is te veel en elke week voel ek anders daaroor. Dalk moet ek maar afsluit met Leonard Cohen, die digter-musikant wat skynbaar nog nooit Die Liefde kon vind nie, maar op so ʼn onthutsende manier oor liefde en woorde kan skryf:

I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.

If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumours on our lips
it is because I hear a man climb the stairs
and clear his throat outside our door.

Van een ding is ek seker: Daardie man op die trap is nie ek nie.

Foto: Mariska Ison

Ek sit met ʼn bietjie van ʼn identiteitskrisis. Is my naam Andries of Roof? Die gerugte blyk toe waar te wees, dat die Brixton Moord & Roof Orkes weer bestaan. Is dit nou die Hervormde Brixton Moord & Roof Orkes? Ek is nie seker nie. Ek weet ook nie mooi hoe die ding gebeur het nie. Ek was by ʼn gig van Bacchus Nel in die Bohemian in Johannesburg se Richmond en toe ek weer sien is ek op die verhoog vir ʼn impromptu optrede deur voormalige lede van die band. Twee weke later is ek in die studio vir band practice. Ons werk nou al ʼn paar maande aan nuwe songs en nuwe interpretasies van ou gunstelinge. Ek weet steeds nie of dit ʼn goeie idee is nie. Die reaksie is egter oorweldigend. Die band se Facebook-groep staan reeds sterk en ons kry van oral versoeke vir optredes.

Vir eers is dit egter net die Aasvoëlklub in Bloemfontein en Steak & Ale in Centurion waar ons gaan optree, maar dan eers aan die einde van Februarie en in Maart.

Die musiekding op my eie het ook ʼn eie momentum gekry. Dis nou as jou platemaatskappy daarop aandring dat jy ʼn bekendstelling (ook bekend as die “launch”) doen. Bleek Berus word dus amptelik bekendgestel in Johannesburg by Prosound se winkel (dis blykbaar eerder store, of dalk selfs ʼn waenhuis, as enige iets anders) by die Hillfox-winkelsentrum in Hendrik Potgieterlaan, Roodepoort op Donderdag, 11 Februarie. Die deure maak 18:00 oop, maar die storie sal seker eers so teen 20:00 begin. Dan is daar die volgende aand, m.a.w. Vrydag, 12 Februarie, ook ʼn bekendstelling by die einste Steak & Ale in Bothalaan, Centurion. Bel maar betyds om ʼn tafel te bespreek by (012) 664-5155.

Hier’s ʼn ou liriek van die Brixton Moord & Roof Orkes. Dis deur Brixton Barnard, die ou wat links op die foto staan, geskryf. Dan is daar, agter hom, Kapelaan Pat Plank, ek (Roof Bezuidenhout) voor in die middel, en langs my is Moord Evans. Hier’s die liriek. Ek kry nie nou die CD nie, so ek tik dit uit my kop uit, soos ek dit onthou, van duisende kere se speel terwyl Brixton Barnard sing:

Paul van der Zandt,
suiker het deur jou gebrand,
jy kon net nie stilsit,
die boy wat se gat jeuk
was orals in Johannesburg
en omliggende areas berug,
jy het mense onstig.
Hul ‘t geweet dat jou kop raas,
kon nie wag dat jy uitpass,
of iewers anders
op jou motorbike wou gaan roam;
Doors, Alcatraz, Thunderdome.
Jy was bouncers se slaansak,
hul ‘t gekom met ʼn snotklap
tot jy een aand met ʼn baksteen opstaan.
Hy retireer.
So het die dinge gebeur…
Op daai eindelose Vrydae,
op daai eindelose Vrydae
toe ons almal gemaak het
of die son nooit weer sou skyn,
of hy nooit weer sou skyn.
Oor jou grys geboue,
in jonk wees se kloue
met niks om te doen
but onsself te versoen met die feit
dat ons net hier rondkruip.
Punks en head bangers,
Gothic sonskerm
Luther Lugosi was eintlik Albertus Jan Theron,
ons was almal oraait.
Somer se lang quarts,
Rudi se wit Ford,
Tony Wyoming, mejuffrou Ciccone,
my vriend, ons het almal gedroom.
Geslaan aan kitare,
grunge en lang hare,
die pyn van Cobain
die Cramps se drug train,
pay your dues.
Nog ʼn amp wat uitfuze.
Nog ʼn band nog ʼn drommer
wat verlief raak op ʼn nommer
en sommer sy stokkies ophang
vir die babakak blues,
die babakak blues…

Paul van der Zand,
ek hoor maar net, nie eers koerant,
van jou tragiese einde,
in Marketstraat, eintlik
het ek jou ʼn week voor die tyd
by Wings Beat Bar gesien.
Jy’t gesê jy’s oraait.
jy’t gesê jy is oraait,
jy’t gesê jy is okei
en Kurt Cobain het gesweer
hy’t nie ʼn geweer,
Kurt Cobain het gesweer,
Kurt Cobain het gesweer
hy’t nie ʼn geweer.

Só iets. Iewers is daar ʼn lyn van white trash wat vir hul sondes by die werk loop betaal en al die stories herhaal wat ek nie heeltemal kan onthou waar dit inpas nie. Kom luister maar self by die volgende gig. Ek hou veral daarvan om te speel as ons Drikus (ook bekend as Brixton Barnard) se songs doen. Dan staan ek terug en luister terwyl ek net op die kitaar hoef te konsentreer. Soms hoef ek nie eers te konsentreer nie.

Daar’s tog iets te sê vir die bespeel van instrumente saam met ander mense.

Om een of ander perverse rede is daar min dinge wat my so opgewonde maak soos ʼn stowwerige argief. Dis seker maar die akademikus in my. Verlede week het ek en Irma ʼn draai gaan gooi by die Nasionale Afrikaanse Letterkundige Museum en Navorsingsentrum (NALN) in Bloemfontein. Irma sê die gebou is pragtig gerestoureer en lyk baie beter as toe sy laas daar was. Ons het vinnig gaan loer in die kluis waarin die Van Schaik-versameling nou ontsluit is. Dis agter ʼn swaar ysterdeur, wat ʼn tydjie geneem het om oop te sluit. Irma wil later terugkeer om verder na die korrespondensie tussen Stella Blakemore en Jan van Schaik te kyk.

Vandag gaan kyk ek toe na van die geskrifte wat deur die digitale biblioteek vir die Nederlandse lettere gelaai is, spesifiek een van die boeke oor Afrikaanse liedere. Ek kom toe op die volgende juweel af:

“Die oorsaak van die degenerasie van die Afrikaanse opsitgewoonte moet waarskynlik gesoek word in die laksheid van baie ouers. Waar vroeër alleen wedersydse liefde die reg daartoe gegee het en die slaaptyd deur die ouers bepaal werd, is later aan enige jongkêrel dikwels toegelaat om op te sit met die dogter vir enige tyd. Hoe dit ook al mag wees, seker is dit dat die omgang tussen jongmense van verskillende geslag in die ‘ou’ tyd baie kuiser was as in ons tyd.” Gaan kyk gerus hier.

Daar het jy dit nou! Uit die jaar van onse Here 1921 nogal! In Versindaba se maand van die liefde kom alles bymekaar. En dit net omdat iemand die moeite gedoen het om ʼn boek uit die argief af te stof en te digitaliseer.

Alexander McCall-Smith

Irma vertel my van die nuwe Isabel Dalhousie-boek van Alexander McCall Smith, waarin een van die karakters nadink oor verval. Blykbaar dink alle mense oor die ouderdom van vyftig dat alles besig is om agteruit te gaan. Dis egter ʼn probleem as twintigjariges begin sê: O tempora! o mores! Maar natuurlik gebeur dit nie, sê die karakter in die boek, want kinders leer nie meer Latyn nie.

Klerewerkers betoog vir die vrylating van Solly Sachs

My oupagrootjie was ʼn myner wat op die ouderdom van 30 aan myntering dood is. In my day job doen ek op die oomblik ʼn navorsingsprojek vir die National Union of Mineworkers (NUM). Ek hou daarvan om saam met hierdie vakbond te werk, omdat hulle nogal daarin kon slaag om ʼn mate van menswaardigheid te beding vir van die mees uitgebuite werkers in Suid-Afrika. Dis natuurlik nie ʼn vakbond sonder probleme nie, maar dis juis waaroor die navorsing gaan; oor of die lede tevrede is met wat die NUM vir hulle doen. Dis die derde keer dat ek só ʼn projek vir hulle doen - die vorige kere was 1998 en 2005. ʼn Mens kry deur só ʼn verhouding met die organisasie nogal ʼn in-diepte kennis van hoe dinge oor tyd verander.

Daar’s ʼn baie interessante geskiedenis van Afrikaners in vakbonde wat ons nooit op skool geleer het nie. In die 1920s tot ‘40s was Afrikanervroue nogal militante lede van die Klerewerkersunie, met Solly Sachs (oudregter Albie Sachs se pa) as die sekretaris, bygestaan deur aktiviste soos Johanna Cornelius, Anna Scheepers en Bettie du Toit. Elsabé Brink het navorsing hieroor gedoen. Ek het lank gelede ook ʼn stuk gelees oor die liedere wat hierdie werkers gesing het. Ek kan nou onthou van ʼn liriek op die wysie van “wat maak oom Kalie daar”, wat scabs (mense wat tydens ʼn staking werk) uitskel as synde te stink na “vrotte vis”. Ek hoop die persoon wat eendag die geskiedenis van Afrikaanse musiek gaan opskryf ontgin hierdie tradisie ook.

Dit laat my nou dink aan ʼn ou folk-liedjie, Which side are you on? Natalie Merchant het ʼn mooi weergawe daarvan opgeneem. Ek skat die teenstelling van “scab” en “man” sal dalk nie heeltemal op die Afrikaanse klerewerksters van ouds van toepassing wees nie, maar ʼn mens hoef nou seker nie sulke dinge deur politieke korrekte toetse te sit nie. Dis ʼn stukkie nostalgie vir lost causes…

Come all you good workers
good news to you I’ll tell
of how the good old union
has come in here to dwell

Which side are you on boys?
which side are you on?

My daddy was a miner
he’s now in the air and sun
he’ll be with you fellow workers
until the battle’s won

Which side are you on boys?
which side are you on?

They say in Harlan County
there are no neutrals there
you’ll either be a union man
or a thug for J. H. Claire

Which side are you on boys?
which side are you on?

Oh workers can you stand it?
oh tell me how you can
will you be a lousy scab
or will you be a man?

Which side are you on boys?
which side are you on?

Don’t scab for the bosses
don’t listen to their lies
poor folks ain’t got a chance
unless they organize

Which side are you on boys?
which side are you on?

Terug uit die Vrystaat. Hier is my stuiwer in die armbeurs oor die werk van Walter Meyer, tien jaar na sy vorige uitstalling by Oliewenhuis.

REVISITING OUR LANDSCAPE OF DISCONTENT: WALTER MEYER AT OLIEWENHUIS, TEN YEARS LATER

Andries Bezuidenhout, 28 January 2010, Bloemfontein
_______________________

“Thorn tree, Kalahari” Oil on canvas, 50cm x 65cm

Where Pierneef was the landscape painter of Afrikaner nationalism, Walter Meyer painted the landscapes of its demise.[1] This take on the work of landscape painter Walter Meyer by Lise van der Watt is often cited in descriptions of his work. In the work of Pierneef, she argues, “[t]he land is emptied out of any human activity, ready for the taking - a powerful representation of white ambition.” In contrast to this, Walter Meyer paints, “in the mid-1990s… almost anachronistically, the seamless and panoramic South African landscape once again. Similar to Pierneef, his landscapes too are empty of human activity, but unlike him, Meyer’s landscapes are also devoid of wealth and prosperity. Indeed, Meyer’s sparse landscapes are populated by ruins of farmhouses and vestiges of smalltown dreams, a land filled with abandonment, with failure and decay.”[2] To be sure, “Meyer’s art describes human displacement. His works retreat from narrative - they carry no promise for a brighter future nor are they nostalgic for a better past. Suspended in the ‘now’, his works proclaim not ownership and authority, but transience and temporary residence.”[3]

These quotations come from two articles published in 1997 and 2001, roughly ten years ago. Now, a decade later, does this assessment still hold? In ten years the geology and much of the geography of the South African landscape has remained the same, but a lot has also changed. Our cities and rural towns have been in constant flux. These are the sites of protests over a lack of service delivery, as well as grotesque public killings of people seen as foreign. In places like Wuppertal, members of the Rooibos cooperative are concerned about the impact climate change may have on their livelihoods.

“Random sea view” Oil on canvas, 45 x 60cm

But Walter Meyer has also produced new work in the past ten years. Now, fifteen years into post-colonial South Africa (to use the term “post-colonial” rather loosely), should we still see him, as Lise van der Watt argued, as the landscape painter of Afrikaner nationalism’s demise?

Some time ago I found myself mesmerised by a Pierneef painting in the Rupert Museum in Stellenbosch; a modest piece, simply called “Dorpstraattoneel”. Strangely enough, unlike Pierneef’s massive station panels, it reminded me of Walter Meyer’s work. The oil paint is thickly applied to the canvas, almost chaotically so. Up close it looks like a stew of unrelated colours, but when you step back, the harmony of the composition draws you in. Given my familiarity with Lise van der Watt’s argument on Pierneef and Walter Meyer, I felt quite awkward. Am I becoming an Afrikaner nationalist like my father? Why am I attracted to a painting by Pierneef?

Already a sufferer from insomnia, this kept me awake, until I read an internal memorandum written by a fictional character, H.K. Khoza, the chief executive officer of an unnamed company, to a certain Ms Williams, the art curator of the unnamed firm. The memorandum deals with the matter of a painting by Hendrik Pierneef, titled “Mountain Landscape”, which the art curator wants to remove from the boardroom to be replaced by a work by struggle artist Willie Bester. Williams sent the CEO an article on the work of Pierneef and highlighted, for his benefit, words such as “dispossession”.

Khoza writes his memorandum in response to this. He points out to her that he personally replaced a photograph of Tokyo Sexwale and a soccer team with the Pierneef, which, after enquiries from his secretary, he had found behind a filing cabinet in a dusty office. He writes:

“I have spent some time looking at Mountain Landscape. Occasionally, I bring a cup of tea in here, turn my back on our much envied city panorama, and simply gaze at that square of paint on canvas. There are golden foothills, soaring peaks in purple and mauve, storm clouds advancing or retreating. I get quite lost in it… Afterwards, when I return to the present… I feel as if I’ve been away to some high place where the air is purer. I feel quite refreshed. I cannot speak with authority - one day at the Louvre will hardly atone for a lifetime of ignorance - but I suspect this capacity to refresh the senses and the spirit is one of the marks of great art.”[4]

Khoza’s colleagues seem to agree with him. Leo Mbola from Telkom is convinced the landscape represents the Winterberge near Queenstown, where he grew up. Another colleague, Eddie Khumbane from Spoornet, describes the painting as “a prime piece of real estate”. Writes Khoza: “He stood there with his hands behind his back, gazing at the painting as if he owned it, and not just the painting but the mountains themselves, the lofty reaches of the Winterberg.”

He returns the article on Pierneef to the curator, with highlights of his own, particularly the phrase: “the proprietorial gaze”, which he sees as the nub of the argument in the article. Based on his colleagues’ response (and Eddie Khumbane’s assessment of the painting as a prime piece of real estate), Khoza feels the painting “is not at odds with our corporate culture”. He’ll keep the Pierneef with him in the boardroom, and the Willie Bester can be placed in the lobby for everyone to see.

Khoza, as mentioned, is a fictional character, in a story by Ivan Vladislavić published in the journal Art South Africa. Like all good art, it lends itself to a number of readings. On the surface it is a critique of easy political correctness. But there is also a more menacing reading, one that points to the fact that the African nationalist gaze of the new ruling elite on the South African landscape sits quite comfortably with that of Afrikaner nationalism. I’m sure Ms Williams, the art curator, would support the latter reading, and upon the dawning of this insight would probably make arrangements to emigrate.

The way we look at art has changed in the past ten years. Maybe I shouldn’t use the plural here. Maybe I look with a more guarded gaze, not unlike the security cameras at residential estates on the periphery of Johannesburg. I see less black and white; more shades of grey. But it is not only a decade’s altered perspectives that make us look differently at the work of the same artist. Walter Meyer’s work has also changed in the past ten years. The scenes we paint come to us depending on where we choose to live and travel. Meyer has chosen to paint new landscapes. I recognise the Kalahari to the north of Upington, the road past Groot Mier to the Namibian border, through Keetmanshoop on to Lüderitz. And then there is Cape Town, a number of seascapes. His beach scenes in Kalk Bay remind one of the Cape Town of J.M. Coetzee’s character Michael K. In addition to landscapes, we can also see a number of works in two of the other traditional genres; portraits and still lifes. It is almost as if Meyer mocks the avant-garde art scene, with its rising stars dancing on Pierneef’s grave. (I guess a Blom on a grave is appropriate.) It will be hard to parody Meyer, because he already does it so well himself.

“Kalahari Hardeveld” Oil on canvas, 55cm x 70cm

But some things remained constant, such as the seemingly chaotic brush strokes, almost like stabs, and the slits of canvas allowed to breathe freely through the oil paint. When you stand really close, it is nearly impossible to imagine a picture emerging from such a bredie, a stew of colour. Yet, if you stand back, a truck roars around a bend in the national road near Upington, or you recognise that vintage Mondrianesque red Citi Golf parked in Kloofnek Road in Cape Town. Then you find your eyes are drawn to the sky. People often forget that the sky is one of the most important elements of a represented landscape. To paint light is the most difficult of all. Where, before, I admired Meyer for the fact that he was able to capture that bleak quality of the Highveld sky, he is equally adept at rendering the sky above the Kalahari, the township at Reitz in the late afternoon, and dusk in Kamps Bay. Indeed, I am in awe of Meyer’s landscapes in part due to his knack of getting the quality of South African light right. His is not an imposition on an African landscape of clouds hovering dramatically, yet politely, over the pastoral villages of John Constable. Our clouds look different, and differently so in different parts of the country.

“Beachfront lawn with tree” Oil on canvas, 40 x 50cm

In conclusion, Lise van der Watt’s description of Meyer’s landscapes in opposition to this romantic tradition of landscape painting: “Decay, neglect, abandonment, dereliction rather offer a more appropriate vocabulary to describe the mood of this work which seems ominously close to our present, in fact, too close for comfort.”[5]

I’m not sure if this description of the previous decade still captures his paintings over the past ten years. There is still the choice of unconventional scenes in his landscapes. Yes, it is possible to look at Table Mountain, one of the clichés of colonial landscape painters, from a different angle. Meyer paints the colossus as seen over the cusp of Signal Hill, with Duiwelspiek and Leeukop not even within view; almost like a tourist giving the landmark a last glance before departing for the airport. Rather than being too close for comfort, I find comfort in many of these landscapes, the pure brilliance of the technique and the beauty of the Kalahari, the Free State planes, and the township in Lüderitz, which you will find in the permanent collection of this museum. I lose myself in them, like the fictional CEO often loses himself in Pierneef’s “Mountain Landscape.” I wonder if my gaze is a colonial gaze. Maybe it’s a post-colonial one. When I look at some of Meyer’s landscapes, I feel nostalgic. But that is too vulgar a word for the enchantment one experiences when engaging great works of art. I don’t feel like someone in transit, I feel a sense of recognition and belonging. Call it a proprietorial gaze if you will, but one without the expectation that Jerusalem will descend from the sky on a land that is neither green nor pleasant. Up close it seems chaotic, even muddled. Yet, if you stand back, you recognise something of the beauty in the bleakness of our skies and the trauma on our landscapes. This is not about ownership and authority, nor is it about transience and temporary residence. It is an engagement of a different order altogether. Maybe we require new ways of looking, even eccentric perspectives, not unlike Walter Meyer’s landscapes.

Notes

“Table Mountain viewed from Signal Hill” Oil on canvas, 50 x 65cm

[1] Van der Watt, Liese. 1997. “Exploring the art of Walter Meyer: Now is the landscape of our discontent.” Vuka, vol. 2, no. 4, pp. 25-31.

[2] Van der Watt, Liese. 2001 “Making whiteness strange.” Third Text, no. 15, p. 63.

[3] Van der Watt, 1997, p. 31. Van der Watt argues: “His [Meyer's] work is a response to traditional landscape painting because it champions realism. For this reason, his art seems unfashionable, conservative even, in relation to contemporary artistic production here and in the rest of the world where realism, and indeed painting itself, have gone out of vogue. This penchant for realistic portrayal as well as the fact that Meyer prefers to work in the very traditional medium of oil painting, is quite surprising for an artist who received his training in the 1980’s when neoexpressionism, conceptual- and installation art dominated most academic institutions such as the University of Pretoria and the Staatliche Kunstakademie in Düsseldorf where Meyer studied for four and three years respectively between 1982 and 1989 - and indeed produced abstracted works… But it is through the kind of realism which he utilises now that Meyer manages to break away from the medium of traditional landscape painting. In contrast to early landscape painters like Volschenk, Hugo Naudé, Pierneef and even more contemporary ones, Meyer’s is a realism that is completely devoid of glamour or beautification and instead focuses on the ordinariness and banality of the South African landscape and platteland.”

[4] Ivan Vladislavić. 2007. “Mountain Landscape.” Art South Africa, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 47-48.

[5] Van der Watt, 1997, p. 31.

“Kloofnek Road” Oil on Canvas, 56 x 71cm