All I’m saying is take the masks off and be as vulnerable, criticizable, ignorable as possible because it really doesn’t help being a 10th of you 80% of the time.
Just before I submit my thesis tomorrow, I felt compelled to express and expel the energy — or at least part of it. So snapping an art mag won as an award felt appealing and the book came to life. So this will be an illustration book of concepts for textual messages basically imposed upon existing art print and wishing for better content on the visual scape. Escaping perhaps from the ISBN slip and drafting theoretical technocratic branding pitches for green grass. Thing is I’ve got no cash for canvas because spending that on cellphone calls and data bushes is somehow part of the business. Healthy? Sometimes. Clear? Not often. Valuable? Yes. Mostly it’s a stream of thought gushing through. Now it’s a bit like documenting this unusual multidimensional energy. So this is page one for my little big art book thing on a printed report on SA art published in 2005. Won the art award, what 12 years ago? Wow. Very concerning. Nevertheless, there is no such thing as a hobby. We’re simply explosions of energy and we can choose to secure our insecurities in persuit of perfeCTION (cc Gary Vee quote ‘perfection is a disguise for an insecurity’); or just put in the hours with a decent and clear understanding of where you’re coming from and how long the sentences will be. This obsession with narrow professions, and lack of dimension! This binary space swallowing most of the people I’ve known for years simply spells FEAR like the harry potter which craft imitated boloi. So one poet was asked when she started being a poet (I think it was Naomi Shihab Nye).
‘were all poets, most of us just stop writing’
The response that was stuck with me was that ‘were all poets, most of us just stop writing’. That was a spectacular response, interviews freeze from lines like that and sink in to a link and giggle. On the other hand something odd took place. One of my friends fell through the sky and the last picture I took of him, only picture really, he didn’t stop looking up at it. That’s what haunts me.
He was a mentor, a guide, and he was also full of shit, and I didn’t like him all the time. But when we hung out, we hung out and tried to catch up on important things with as few words as possible. Which might be weird but I’d rather keep this thought somewhere in this space to remind creatives to put in the work on a multidisciplinary level. He was a photographer, from poet, to some book concept and a religious space in organizing events and setting himself up for new risks. More risks.
In any case we wear masks. Especially creative blacks. We wear masks. He wore one too, at least to me. I guess after listening to an audio clip (no link available) of Basquiat, oh from shooting star; it’s pretty obvious that the 12th of August is a sad day, mooned up at first and darkest later. Just don’t have lust for where my headspace is at right now. But nevertheless, pulling out a thesis tonight and blasting through something special for women’s day. All I’m saying is take the masks off and be as vulnerable, criticizable, ignorable as possible because it really doesn’t help being a 10th of you 80% of the time.
Hlulani 