Sprinkling of Magic

Erica Wertlen
Grahamstown

“You know you’re still shining, right?”

I turn to my housemate, confused for a few moments and he just stares at me, a giggle hidden behind his lips. For a minute I think he’s finally lost it, an evitability when residing in the same house as me. And then it all comes back to me as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, the small dots of glitter reflecting in the light.

How it didn’t dawn on me earlier, I don’t know. The stuff is everywhere – adorning my bedroom, my car and my camera bag; refusing to be contained by the laundry basket that houses my glitter-stained clothing. It only makes sense that a speck or two would have clung on harder than the rest despite my best efforts. After all, I’m practically sleeping in glitter-soaked bedding. If anything, I’m surprised there isn’t more of the stuff on me.

But what is a party without glitter? One that doesn’t doesn’t involve Erika, of that I’m fairly certain. Which is why it was felt by all involved that a party celebrating her growing a year older, a year wiser, and celebrating another year that we get to spend in her presence, HAD to involve glitter and tons of it.

So, when Erika arrived at her party expecting nothing more than a quiet night in with her friends, the surpise kicked off with a glitter bomb hidden above the door, with friends waiting behind it to welcome her into her latest year of life. Friends who were dressed to the nines for the carnival theme and friends who all wanted nothing more than to see the look of pure, unadulterated love, joy and awe on her face when she saw the gift that awaited her.

Being the presence of pole-dancing in this small town, it was felt that little could capture the essence of Erika more than giving her her very own pole to light up the stage with. Well, nothing material would have matched it in any case. The box filled with photographs and messages of love from all those around her came pretty close as well. But an evening spent with those that she cares about was the icing on top of the birthday cake of celebrations.

So, when I catch my reflection, the thoughts that come back to me are of an evening of fun, friends and freedom filled with beauty and dancing and sprinkled with the little bit of magic that glitter provides.

“Oh well,” I announce in response, and turn away, the glitter sparkling in the light and bringing a smile to my face.

Learning by Doing

Birthday Bash

Ruanthai, Grahamstown

I tend to be a planner. I like to have an idea in mind of exactly what an event is going to be like, what angles I am going to be able to take from and what photos I am going to be taking. I have lists. I like everything to be perfectly in order. And that, as a photographer, is a terrible idea.

There are times when things don't go according to plan. There are times when the light just isn't right, when your subjects just aren't co-operating and when your lists get blown away by the wind. Weather changes, things come up and there is nothing that you can do about it. You just have to be prepared to roll with whatever comes your way. Which I find difficult to do, but seem to be getting some practice with.

Take for example the birthday party that I was hired to photograph over the weekend. I was given weeks of notice. I had my gear packed and ready for whatever lighting I might have come across. I felt prepared. I arrived early. I got the prepping shots, the details down to a tee. And then things started heading a little south.

I had been hired for an hour to take photos at the start of the birthday dinner before the guests settled in to their meal, while they were still milling around and having starters and chatting. But it turns out that the one person who wanted photos of everyone, the birthday boy himself, had a family emergency and was going to be late. So I ended up being a photographer in a room filled with people who didn't particularly want to have their photos taken. Everyone was chatting, eating, mingling with each other and there I was, on the outskirts, snapping away wherever possible. People tended to hide their heads when the camera turned in their directions and duck out of my gaze. Which makes the job of documenting the party more than a little difficult.

I tend to like candid shots more than posed ones - shots that bring out the light in people without their even knowing about it. Which is difficult in a room with less than ten people when you are the one with the big camera. Everyone knows who you are photographing and when. And if they don't want to have their photograph taken, it makes it very difficult. But I managed nonetheless. It turns out that some of the best photos of the evening were the candid ones, the posed ones feeling, at times, a little too posed.

 

 I have learned my lesson. You'd have thought that I would have learned it way back at my first wedding shoot, but I consider it learned now. You can prepare for weeks, months, maybe even years. But in the end, when you are photographing people, nothing can prepare you for how they will react and what will happen. You've just got to be ready for whatever comes your way. 


I never ended up getting a single photograph of the birthday boy - he arrived an hour after I had to leave. But I consider this to be a learning experience. I consider this to be a test of what I can make of a difficult situation. I consider myself ready.

Childhood

Alexia Geldenhuys van Zyl
3
Grahamstown

I do not have any children, and at this stage of my life that is a very good thing. I am not even 24 years old and the closest thing that I have to a child is my cat, Puddims. But I do have a goddaughter, and there is little that I love more in the world than spoiling her rotten.

Yesterday was Alexia's third birthday, so Grant and I headed over to the Geldenhuys/Van Zyl house with our hands filled with the presents that we had found (and made) for her. The look on her face when we walked in was priceless as she saw the giant frog that could not be wrapped surrounded by Hello Kitty covered gifts. Not being old enough to open them herself, I had to help her by making the first tear and then watching her pull it and exclaim "BABY!" as she unwrapped each individually wrapped fluffy toy, followed by her other gifts which she was less excited about naming, but more excited about playing with. Grant and I always get Alexia fluffy toys, possibly because I want to get them but cannot possibly justify keeping them for myself, so end up giving them to someone who I know will appreciate them as much as I do. But this birthday, we decided that she was getting old enough to start learning as well. So we got building blocks with the alphabet and numbers and pictures on them so that she can start getting some learning in while she plays. We also got her bath gel that we know will cause her hours of joy and her parents hours of cleaning up - a toy that no parent would get their own child, but that others feel no guilt in buying.

Watching Alexia play with her toys always makes me feel young. She plays with such abandon, with such vigour as though this is the best thing in the whole wide world. I miss being that age, when every new toy is the best thing in the world and disappointments are short lived. It's certainly a good mindset to have, but one that we, as adults, have some trouble getting to grips with. But for now, I am more than happy to watch from the sidelines as Alexia grows and hope that I will be there for her when the frivolities of life start to fade and seriousness starts taking over.

Friday

Friday night,
Grahamstown



"Everyone is staring."
"No they... okay, they are."
"No one else is dressed up."
"No they aren't."
"Dammit."
I make my way to the bar as quickly as possible, trying to avoid the stares that I am receiving. I only receive more once I get there.
"What are you drinking," the bartender asks looking me up and down from the pink paws to the black nose and whiskers to the white ears.
"This was a bad idea."
"Relax!"
"Debbie isn't even here yet."
"She'll be here!"
And moments later, there she is, in all her musical splendour and I no longer feel quite so alone in my awkwardness. And so the night begins as drinks are ordered and chatter is made. I look around the table at all the people that I don't recognise and wonder where the years have gone. Friendships come and go, but at least we have stayed together - Debbie, Andrea and I. We share moments catching up on each others lives - boyfriends, fiancees (a new development), studies, work, all the kind of chatter that comes from years spent apart and the awkwardness that fills the silences in between as we try to find something new to talk about.



Friends, drinks, food - before I know it, the first half of the night has become a blur of the three and I am finding myself cold outside Grotto Mojito, wanting to find somewhere warmer. As much as I want to spend more time with Debbie, it is time to move on, and we make our way to the Rat and Parrot.
"One drink," I announce as we arrive at the packed pub. "One drink and then we're out of here."
If we can even find somewhere to drink it, I think to myself, but don't voice my opinion. I don't go out often, and I am not going to ruin it this time.
Andy has followed us to the Rat and quickly finds someone that she recognises and we find ourselves a table together with his friends. I don't know any of them, though one seems to know me. Together we drink, laugh and chat as I snap away, not wanting to take my camera away from my face, not really wanting to chatter with these guys who I probably have nothing in common with. And then they leave and their spots are replaced with more randoms, girls this time. Introductions are made and chatter continues until it really is time to go, a drink and four shots later than I had expected.



I wake up early the next morning, earlier than I would have liked for a Saturday, without a headache thankfully, and with only good memories of the night that passed - always a good sign after drinking. I smile as I think back to Debbie's party, the strangers that I met, that I will probably never see again, but who I shared moments with and whose moments I captured. And looking over the photographs, I remember why I like photography - I may not know them, but I have a piece of them here, on my screen, on my camera and in my memory.

Coming of Age

Shaun Gordon
21
Benoni, Johannesburg

Twenty One. The doorway into the world of adulthood, where you can no longer use your age as an excuse for your ignorance. Also, it's a helluva good excuse for a party.



"Here's to Shaun! He's so blue! He's a drunkard through and through! He's a bastard, so they say! Tried to go to heaven but he went the other way!"
The chorus rings through Olde 65, practically shaking the walls as Shaun tries to down the toxically green drink.
"Come on," he begs, but the crowd refuses to relent, only giving up once he's halfway through and its obvious that he is going no further.
"Do you think he's going to make it till midnight," someone asks me, and I only need to take one look at him before I answer with a resounding NO.



As the festivities continue, I make my way through the crowd, clutching my camera to me as though my life depends on it, hiding behind it whenever I see an opportune moment. A balloon that once acted as a punching "bag" drifts through the air amidst the rest of the sporting decorations. A Man United flag hangs proudly and prominently in the back room. Shaun rushes from person to person making sure that everyone is having the time of their lives. He doesn't want his special day to be a disappointment to anyone else, and that's just like him - as long as everyone else is happy, so is he.



Jagerbombs, Springbokkies and Susans keep making the rounds along with the beer and alki-pops (or cheerleader beer as I like to refer to them), and yells of "BUFFALO" can be heard every few minutes, mostly emanating from Jeroen, a family friend visiting from the Netherlands who takes the "game" all too seriously. Droplets of spilled alcohol are sprinkled over the plastic tablecloths and wooden benches. A balloon lingers ever closer to a lit hubbly bubbly at the back as the music blares and the projector plays clips from memorable soccer games.



With midnight fast approaching, the older contingent of the party starts to fade without fading and I find myself a seat to collapse into in a spot where I can still take photos when they are needed. The young-uns are still having the time of their lives, and despite a short respite in his enthusiasm, Shaun is still raring to go. Calls for Friar Tuck's are heard as Olde 65 announces its closing, much to the relief of some (myself included). I may not be old, but I am definitely too old for Friars and the havoc that is contained there - overcrowded dance floors where you can't move and can't tell who it was that just pinched your ass.



Leftover food is gathered into tin foil, decorations are carefully torn from the walls, tablecloths and paper plates are crumpled and thrown into waiting black bags as the venue starts to empty of its occupants. The faders are crammed into cars and sent on their way with the remnants of a party that will be left in people's memories for days, weeks, months and years to come.