W I LHELM KRÜGER
W I LHELM KRÜGER
Africa out of perspective By Blake Pickering Describing life in South Africa to a citizen of the first world is like having to apologise to polite dinner company for an inappropriate joke. The first problem is that many, particularly those lucky enough to be born into suburbia, don’t have the remotest inkling of what South Africa is really like. The cushion manifests in several strata of security gadgets: boom gates, razor wire, electric fences, armed response, guard dogs, slam lock gates, CCTV, motion sensors and emergency buttons, or any combination depending on household income and elected lifestyle environment. Cars feature alarms, immobilisers, gear and steering locks, antihijacking systems and satellite tracking. Wealthy South Africans spend billions on exorbitant medical aid and insurance policies to spare being forced to glance across the divide. Coasting between home, work, shopping multiplexes and socially accepted (and protected) recreational settings, they remain totally and gratefully oblivious. But occasionally, inevitably, reality smashes a car window and relieves a purse or cellphone from a passenger seat, pricking the bubble of denial. Unfortunately, fear has made cultural mice of many. The first world illusion denies the incredible texture that exists beyond the high walls. A mere kilometre from where I type on the bleeding edge of modern technology, one can purchase a monkey’s hand to ward off evil. From there one can hear the daily call to prayer from the city mosque, which echoes off corporate glass and steel in the opposite direction. But as with all paradoxes, there is Yin’s curiosity to paranoia’s Yang. South Africa, and the continent beyond, are a creative opiate. There is something mingled in the air itself that demands the predisposed get their fix. Those that leave ache to return. Little changes. Little stays the same. Since Mandela walked waving at the enraptured from the gates of incarceration, South Africa has not stopped stripping away the layers of our past. And yet our national identity still defies definition. The first world is a myriad shades of grey. Where the west has a single font tweaked and twiddled in several hundred variations, each subtly nuanced for graphic designers to express minute differences in ‘brand personality’, Africa has its type rendered by street signage artists, tailored to fit, unique every time and featuring a wide range of eye-catching effects that shout out ‘hey you!’ to people passing by. Where the west’s version of democracy generally gives a choice of two or three parties (Republican or Democrat, Social Democrats or Christian Democrats), in Africa the choice is either none or a wide array of parties, some sporting some very colourful campaign promises. In South Africa’s latest election, the ballot boasted seventeen hopefuls, including the KISS Party, the Pro-Death Penalty Party and even the Soccer Party; the latter promising to legalise marijuana, implement a four day working week and make sport compulsory for the whole nation on Fridays with immediate effect (provided, of course, that they won a two-thirds majority that would give them the necessary powers). Sadly, none of the parties managed a single seat. And yet, like all countries in the developing world, we aspire to achieve what the first world has. Our leaders wear Saville Row suits and fly in private Gulfstream jets. Our fashion, décor and entertainment arrives, straight off the pages of New York and Parisian glossies, usually a year or two late. In some ways, we have exceeded our own expectations: a truly free press, an audacious culture of free expression and an economy that is ticking along nicely, thank you. But, try as we might, all too often the good intentions get a little lost in translation, and instead we get the African ersatz.
The worst thing about being white, or black, is that it’s so obvious. Almost seems ridiculous to point it out. What makes this heartbreaking is that our ancestors, attitudes and imagined crimes are apparently written on us with the same broad strokes as our skins. We never get the chance to explain. People we meet get to decide what they think we believe right away. Sounds like a stupid thing to say though, doesn’t it? STEVE KOTZE
issue #22 : 2006 Published now and then by Orange Juice Design Durban South Africa as part of our on-going commitment to excellence in African graphic design “i-jusi” (ie-juice-ie) roughly translated as "juice" in Zulu Publisher Garth Walker: Orange Juice Design Editorial Office P O Box 51289 Musgrave Road 4062 KwaZulu-Natal South Africa Fax +27-31-2771870 www.ijusi.co.za
I-JUSI wishes to acknowledge the generosity and commitment of Fishwicks The Printers in promoting South African graphic design
And hopefully, that’s how it’ll always be. COPYRIGHT © Orange Juice Design • Reproduction in whole or in part of any contents of i-jusi without prior permission from the publisher is strictly prohibited. The publishers cannot accept responsibility for images or statements expressed by contributors.
A portrait of Sixolile Bojana photographed by Pieter Hugo at a morgue in Khayelitsha, Cape Town. It is part of a series titled “The Bereaved�, showing men who died of AIDS-related illnesses, in their caskets prior to their return to the Eastern Cape for burial. The series of portraits are the start of a new project exploring the spaces associated with mourning, and the bereaved families of the deceased.
PI ETER HUGO
AN TON KAN N EMEYER and CONR AD B O T E S
MERW E LE ROUX
The double-meaning adventure of Tokoloshe (a mythical creature from indigenous South African folklore)
W I LHELM KRÜGER