japan

This story starts like a life starts. 
With one step, one journey, the planting of a seed. 

My first trip to Japan.

The gentle sliding back of a paper screen to reveal a world beyond. 

I sit in a park with my eyes shut listening to the gentle rustling of a thousand delicate spring-green maple leaves far above my head and then the slow, even, single tone of a Shakuhasi flute rising and nearly disappearing. 
I breathe in. 
There is a bond between myself and the Japanese musician standing so close with his back to me. The sound seems to come from his heart to mine like a first kiss, or the soft skin on a baby’s tummy. Perfect. 
I feel my heart rate slow as I watch women and their daughters walking hand in hand; a single silver bicycle passes with a tin pig-tailed girl in pink sneakers tucked in front basket; teenaged boys with sagging jeans and school books; a middle-aged man in Elvis glasses walking slowly backwards. Paths cross. 

In a temple garden miles away I try to photograph the un-photographable. I look through my Japanese lens at the impenetrable grace of this place - a bumpy carpet of intense green, the colour of praying mantises, a single small black tree, white pebbles, sharp maroon Acer leaves cutting into a background of bamboo punctuated with cherry blossoms the colour of clean pigs. 
Women volunteers with white silk sashes sweep the paths. Slowly, an ancient man picks tiny berries from between the white pebbles under a tree.
 A deep sense of respect seems to run under the surface of everything I see. Carefully tended front gardens and smoothly sanded wood, just enough space for things to fit perfectly as if intended by nature. 
_____

She holds her mobile phone up to watch the tiny display as stations tick past and I watch her. Her shoes have the smallest little wooden funnel-heels and are made of brown leather etched with a fine herring bone pattern, they come to a sharp point peeking out from under jeans that bear horizontal white slashes the full length of her thin legs. Her white jacket is, I realize, a white shirt expertly gathered, cut and sewn into an elastic band to form a short jacket. Her hair is cut in angular levels that curve to follow the smooth line of her pale jaw. Caught in a pin on one side a lone strand longingly traces the nape of her delicate neck. Brightly-coloured miniature animals dangle from the phone emitting a soft tinkling sound as the train moves. Her lips are painted the colour of pink grapefruit, her eyes expertly lined in black kohl. 

Another girl stops on stone steps to look at the cameras, golden charms in her tar-black lacquered hair blink in the sunshine. Her lips are Maraschino Cherry 'red' on the bottom lip only - the sign of a novice. Her chalk-white face makes reading emotions difficult. She walks stutteringly on wooden sandals with supports like little tables, her steps limited by the silken folds of a silver-blue kimono. Crimson ribbons circle her waist over a wide sash that holds in place a pillow of pale pink embroidered fabric at the small of her back. At the top of the steps I see her through the trees. As she steps into the sun she raises a red bamboo umbrella and turns her head so gracefully. She looks at me. Two women. 

Rachel and I twist through narrow stone streets lined with stalls. We are discussing snack possibilities with a level of detail and attention to nuance that is a cornerstone of our relationship. Sweet edamame bean rolls, pasty white dumplings dusted with powdered sugar and filled with plum-coloured aduki bean paste, crunchy soy-coated rice crackers criss-crossed with strips of green-black seaweed. We agree unconditionally on a red and white paper packet containing hot, soft donuts. Then I hold her hand as she walks with her eyes closed between two sacred stones - if she makes the trip without opening her eyes she will have love. 
She does. 

"God is the trees, the rocks, the mountains" a man tells me on the steps of Fushimi-inari. 
"A nice idea" I say smiling, 
"Not idea. Fact" he insists. 
"Yes" I say. 
As the sun sets the lanterns come on in the temple following the path up past stone fox sentinels to a corridor of hundreds of giant red Tori gates tucked into the folds of the mountain. I can see the orange-red glow of the gates through the trees and far, far away. 

The foxes that lived on the mountains around Kyoto are thought of as gods. A visit to the temple dedicated to them brings prosperity. Later on the 'Path of Philosophy' I see it out of the corner of my eye. It’s bouncing gait and golden-orange fur unmistakable. He wears a thin leash and trots quickly beside an old man. 

An old woman smiles at me. The water is hot - from the earth’s core but my skin tingles as I enter the bath. In front of me the teal-green water laps at the perfect porcelain skin and the rounded shoulders of a young girl. She is exquisite. Her round red lips, expressionless beauty and soft wisps of black hair misted slightly by the steam rising between us. Cold rain falls on my face; I can smell the mountain breathing. 

A strong smell fills my nose as we leave the subway. Fish. Then there are the carts- spinning mechanized platforms driven by man men who grip the horizontal steering wheel like riders on the 'Mad Hatters Tea Party' at Coney Island. They spin at full speed in every direction transporting Styrofoam boxes of live and semi-live fish. I am in a maze of stalls surrounded by the most incredible sights: ancient old men battling 6' slabs of frozen swordfish with chainsaws; strange spiky orange fish with bulging blue eyes pulled from the bottom of the sea and gasping for air; rows of bottles filled with millions of one eyed worm-fish the size and colour of toenail clippings; blood red hunks of tuna and rows of gleaming silver scales and blue fishes and white buckets filled with live conch and pink octopuses with flailing tentacles. Men in white jackets and blue overalls and black boots rush from stall to stall. My stomach turns over slightly as I walk by flounder drawing desperate breaths in a bucket of blood. 
But I could spend days here. Every inch of this market is alive with struggle and life and smell and colour. I buy a knife from an old man with a worn face and tired eyes and he sharpens it lovingly on a wheel and whetstone. 

Sitting at a dark wooden counter on Imadegawa I study the chef as he prepares one of ten courses of our Kaseiki dinner. His round, slightly damp face is accentuated by a small black paper hat that sits on his head like a crown. He has kind eyes and rubs his hands deferentially as he nods and bows. 
This meal is a gift to us from him. 
Kaseiki meals are an art form, flavours and textures, balanced presentation, exquisite detail and flavour. A bamboo shoot pancake toasted golden brown is served on a hand painted porcelain plate with orange and blue flowers, nestled beside it a deep-fried aubergine with fermented plum sauce. Warm, soft, melting flesh. I watch the chef spooning green, pea sauce into a tiny ceramic dish the size of a jar-top to taste the steaming liquid. He whisks it violently and then spoons the green soup lovingly over butter-soft slabs of fermented tofu in soft grey bowls. 

Life is an art form here, a meditation in practice. 
At night we lie on tatami mats side by side. Moonlight falls through the paper screen and the smell of jacaranda fills my head.

kryptonite

There was a storm that night. Tree branches fighting above me as I steer my small car into the narrow street. The wind screamed around me, the sound of leaves slapping against eachother everywhere above my head. If our story was a movie the audience would instantly recognise what we didn’t - the dramatic foreshadowing of things to come. The turbulent moment when stars collide to create another species, the clicking into the charged track of crash-bound train. 

I notice him instantly, the red embers from his lit cigarette glowing bright against the dark blue night sky. 'Why don’t I ever meet guys like that?' I thought to myself as I push the wind-heavy door open and it carries me with it. 
'Can I help you?' his voice is brought to me on the wind. I look up quickly and notice the intricate blue patterns swimming on his pale arms and his red hair, the colour of spoiled peaches. He smiles easily and I am aware that the hairs on my arms and neck are standing on end. Without thinking I hand him my precious, yellow camera case. As he lifts it his muscles respond easily to the heavy weight and I watch him cross the now darkened road. I stand for a moment, listening to the complaining wind and remark that I trusted him instantly. Would I change something? Did I know in that moment that there was no jumping the track, that I was already being pulled towards a predetermined precipice?

When he stood near me I could taste the tobacco from his cigarette in the air between us. My skin felt warm and cold at once and I could hear a quickened pulse pounding in my neck and wrists. Taking my hand he slipped a smooth white tablet into it and I put it instinctively in my mouth. The hard exterior yielding instantly to the pressure of my teeth, the shattered crackling candy coating exploding into a burst of sugary, fake, strawberry flavour in my mouth. I look at him wide-eyed. I feel like a blind person suddenly noting the sharpness of my remaining senses. 

Weeks later I make my way to baggage claim and then out to the meeting area practicing my smile. But he’s not there. And then he is. Later when I look at pictures of him I’m not sure what it was that blinded me. Like a cartoon character under the influence of a love potion all I saw was sparkling stars and floating hearts. In the car he looks directly into my eyes “We both know what this is.” He says simply and I nod. 

I could linger on this part forever. The dizzying feeling of falling madly, irrationally and blindly without a thought for the fast-approaching fatal end. The surety of the others arms and the kind of laughter you hear only under tousled sheets in alternating rays of sun and moonlight. Whatever happened next, this part of the story is undisputable. It is not possible to taint it even with the light of what he did or I did or what happened between us. There were no missed clues, nothing I should have or could have seen. Everything was already written, including the necessary suspension of rationality. I couldn’t and wouldn’t change it. 

Even when I knew, I could still close my eyes and curl my mind around him, his skin blending into mine, his red hair caught in my fingers, his breath against my neck. I had to look away, and remind myself, repeating what he’d done aloud to myself like a rosary, because I knew that one look at that flame could melt the fragile framework of my resistance. Like heroin one taste would take me back to a place that I couldn’t afford to go. And so it ended the way it had to, with drama and tears and shouting and then silence. But at the same time it is never over, never will be.

ilhaam

(click on image to see more)

I love people who do not fit into traditional categories. People who defy definition because defining them would require putting them in a group of peers and they are peerless. People who challenge and inspire you every single time you are in their presence and who drive you to lengths you had not imagined possible. Ilhaam Behardien is definitely one of these. I once described the first course I took with her as ‘The Ilhaam Behardien School of Fasten Your Fucking Seatbelt’. Because it was just that. 

The advert that found its way, miraculously, onto my computer screen read like it was written for me. The course was called ‘Defining Yourself as an Artist’. It described what I had always been looking for, a course that would help me find my voice as an artist and a format for me to funnel my creative energy thru. But Ilhaam’s course should come with a warning. Just like the video screens of doctors on the way into Space Mountain at Disneyworld that warn you to ‘turn back now or proceed at your own risk’. The course warning label should read: Those who pass by this portal must be ready to break patterns, and moulds and stereotypes and break down barriers and bridges. To face your fears and your inner voices and the music and the light. To open your eyes and your heart and your mind and Pandora’s box and search for hidden truth and naked honesty; to grasp the Wizards ring and the brass ring and take hold of yourself by the scruff of your misconceptions and wage battle against your own demons armed only with art and soul. 

Day one I arrive, imagining I know something. About art, about myself, about my voice and if not the form of art, I know what I like and have some idea what I am like. I am, of course, wrong. 

One of the things I love about Ilhaam is the way she looks. She has a smooth round face like the perfect face of a Russian doll, with giant eyes that expand regularly to full volume like the squeals that punctuate her expressive voice. Her skin is as white as milk and she wears a veil. Not a wolf in sheep’s clothing, more of a parallel universe in a simple piece of cloth. I, of course, had my own ideas about women who wear a veil; Ihaam would quickly dispossess me of these. 

Our first task was to analyze, as a group, the images each of us had brought and seek to define each person by the unwritten links between the images they had selected to show. This immediately made me uncomfortable. I hadn’t understood the assignment; I hadn’t really brought anything telling or deep, just pretty pictures. I was slow to realize that this said more about me than I cared to admit. 

Over the weeks that followed I watched myself cycle through my defenses one by one: ‘I’m not like these people, I am difficult to define’ = contentious. ‘I have been everywhere and done everything’ = closed. ‘I am interested in the theoretical root, the conceptual abstraction of pure art’ = I have no idea but I know I’m smarter than you. Each of these barriers brought new challenges and tears and each week Ilhaam would chip away at the veneer till what started to shine thru was the simpler, more obvious truths defined above. 

Art isn’t scary the way mountain climbing is, for instance. With mountain climbing you prepare your muscles for the ascent and you strengthen your nerves by repeated practice on increasingly challenging pistes. The trick about art is that the only thing that prepares you is to dive into the abyss with no defenses. To open yourself up completely in every way to be led, skinless, and artifice-free wherever art wants to take you. The hitch being that only if and when you drop your defenses enough to listen, will it speak to you.

This sort of thing is, of course, much easier to see in others. So each week in class I began to see how beautifully things were falling into place for those who had been able to hush their ‘inner critic’ and just follow the flow. Beautiful things emerged. Giant caress-able balls of crocheted angora with hidden secrets; tiny, golden, slippers with millions of pins protruding in every direction; raw cartoons of rats being crucified. But I was still stuck…

Then one week I started working on fax paper, briefly detailing the thousands of conceptual art ideas floating around in my head in a running commentary: motion-sensitive jewelry; survival suits for school kids; head-pieces that mimic animal survival techniques in social situations. Each idea I worked through to a final, finished product in my head and then described in class. This finally felt closer to my true artist self somehow. Pure concept without the process of execution. Non-retinal art that exists only in my head and the listener’s (check out immaculateconceptualisation channel on You Tube). Exciting and limitless conceptual exploration with no boundaries. Just as I was taking flight the course ended. And then something new happened. Ilhaam and I began collaborating on an exhibition. 

Each week we would meet for a few precious hours and we quickly discovered that working together something quite powerful began to shift. The complete synchronicity of understanding meant that we could each question and vocalize in a way we hadn’t individually. We worked with live mould and crystals and salt and photography and computer enhancement and a body of powerful work dealing with issues of the women of Gaza began to materialize. 

In the process of working together Ilhaam and I found a deep level of communication that binds us together irrevocably. I have the utmost respect for her as an artist, a thinker, a woman and a friend. This morning at 6:30AM we shot images of her, veiled and immersed in the icy waters of the tidal pools in Seapoint. With this project, as with all others, she was fully present, focused, fearless and generally ‘balls to the wall’. As always with Ilhaam the result was unexpected and the experience revelatory. 

I have no doubt that meeting Ilhaam has changed the course of my life, or that she will forever be a part of it. She reminds me that life is about that, the connection with another human being that goes beyond words, beyond pictures and beyond all limitations.

Love you girl.

noma

A friend from England phoned. He was in New York and would meet me for dinner at an Indian restaurant on 6th Street. I found it easily, a small blue door surrounded by thousands of fairy lights. Inside I ducked under a heavy canopy of bright red chilli Christmas lights and made my way through the cramped red plastic tables. I found Mark and he greeted me like old friends do, hugging me too long and changing the subject quickly. I watched his handsome face across the table and thought absently that it must be easier not to be American. At the next table six Indian waiters sang ‘Happy Birthday’ at full volume accompanied by a blaring disco soundtrack. Mark and I sat smiling and waiting. Poppadams arrived with sweet chilli and mint and yogurt. 
Then he said it.: “I’m moving to Cape Town.”
“South Africa?!” I asked in disbelief.  “you can do that? Just move?!” 

I have often had the feeling at pivotal moments in my life that the soundtrack suddenly fades. The restaurant blurred suddenly around us, the brightly coloured lights and the singing waiters blending into a distant haze as Mark answered question after question about how and where. After I hurry him through his dinner the restaurant spat us out on the freezing sidewalk. Snowflakes were just starting to fall and we could see our breath leaving our mouths in steaming clouds as we talked and walked home. 

That night I pushed the neighbours cat out of the way and opened the 6 locks on my front door. I left the lights off and dropped my keys into a ceramic bowl in the front hall before proceeding directly to my computer. One touch of it’s green blinking eye and the room was suddenly bathed in blue light. I clicked on the Travelocity website and quickly booked tickets…

A few weeks later my daughter lay sleeping beside me, the gentle hum and rumble of the jet engines all around us. I pulled the synthetic airplane blanket around her and switched on my reading light. In the small pool of florescent light I reached for the in-flight magazine. Flipping quickly through the pages I landed absently on a real estate ad. It seems now that all these events happened without my full knowledge. Some greater hand turning the pages of my destiny. Funny how life is altered by the smallest things – a phone call, an ad in a magazine. What made me tear the page from the magazine, tuck it into my bag and switch off the light? Does fate just step in every once in a while and take the wheel?
____

Toast in my mouth, I take a swig of tea and I run down the stairs to answer the repeatedly-ringing doorbell. 
“Coming!” I shout. 

Rain pounds on the corrugated plastic roof of the front hall. At the door stands an enormous black woman with a red turban and matching dress. 
She is perfectly dry. 
We stand looking at each other and then her face blooms into an enormous smile. “I am Eunice, I have come to work for you.” 

I hadn’t asked her to come, she had simply appeared; like the moon appears sometimes in the sky as if it was always there. There was no question that I would say ‘yes’ and we sat at the dining room table without being sure what else there was to say. 

“It’s not your name is it? Eunice.” 
“No.” She says “But you won’t be able to say my name with your American tongue.” 
“Try me” I said. 

The word rolls so beautifully off her lips and lands in the air with a soft click. I was determined and I did my best and she smiled at me and nodded. 

_____

Then the house was slowly filled with her personality. In the good times she would sing as she did the ironing and I could feel her presence making my heart warmer inside wherever I was. In bad times she would sit in my office and wipe tears from her broad face. Or we would stand in the road outside her house, my tears falling on her generous chest. The connection between us was always strong but deepended over time.  So much so that we shared physical pains. If she fell, I felt pain in the same limb; if I woke with a pain in my neck I knew she would arrive rubbing her neck just there. 

She shared a million African wisdoms with me: bees in the house means company is coming; Worms in the drain, a message from the ancestors; The feeling inside when something is coming; and the meaning of Ubuntu – ‘I am who I am because you are who you are’ – the (truly African) practice of sharing what you have with those who don’t.

______

Noma arrived in tears one morning. Her husband, had come home from work drunk, they had fought. He pushed her out of the room they shared and - as she and her children tried to beat down the door- he made a noose with en electric cable. Now filled with guilt and anger and shame she came to me. Together we drove to her house. We parked the car on the dusty road and walked in silence through the twisted paths between shacks to hers. 

Her husbands’ sisters had been summoned to sit on suicide watch and we all sat formally on chairs in the small living room not knowing what to say. Her husband moved from room to room sullen and shamed, in a trance. His thin face said everything and nothing as his sisters’ similar features smiled politely at me. She and I shared this. 

We have shared everything. Divorce and betrayal, sickness and health, sadness and joy, growth and pain. We raised daughters together and lived together for more than twelve important years. When I think of South Africa and the years I have lived here hers’ is the first face I will think of. And when we return to visit she will be my first stop. I was so luck to have seen life a little from her perspective and when we leave, a piece of all of us will stay with her.