Puku Story Festival - Part One: Hitting the Road

In February, 2015 I was privileged enough to be asked to photograph Grahamstown's Puku Story Festival - a festival aimed at promoting the telling, writing, publishing and reading of stories in isiXhosa. This is part one of my experience of the festival.

I can’t understand a word that they’re saying.

There are over forty children, all under six years old, crammed into a classroom with no fewer than six adults, myself being one of them, all talking at once, and there is not a single word that I recognise. My primary school lessons have failed me, my “Khunjani khakuhle” nothing more than a mixed up memory that makes no sense in the real world. At least not when strung together in the sing-song way that stuck in my head. And not only is this just day one, it is just school one of day one. What have I gotten myself into?

The answer? Three days filled with endless smiles and laughter. Three days of excited shouting and running and twirling around to “Lizzy Lizzy”. Three days of making music with hands and mouths, emptied tins of jam and sosatie sticks or washing pegs. Three days of barely understanding a word that is spoken, but seeing with my own eyes wide faces filled with wonder at stories that I can’t understand, and don’t need to.

The Puku Story Festival was on its way to Grahamstown, and I spent three days travelling from school to school for road shows in areas that I didn’t even know existed, and got to see the excitement first hand as the children were told stories in their mother tongue. I got to capture their spell-bound glances, their shoulders hunched in anticipation and their unrelenting joy at having story-tellers come to visit.

I couldn’t understand a word that they were saying. I didn’t have to.

Thank You, Amanda

Amy, Dee, Rosa and Samantha
Grahamstown

"Who?"
The question rings in my ears and I take a deep breath as I prepare myself for the explanation, which will inevitably be followed by bursts of confusion, opinions and a myriad of YouTube videos.
"Amanda Palmer," I reply, and am met with a blank stare that begs for something more.

I can't really blame them for their ignorance, as much as I would like to. If someone had mentioned the name to me as little as two years ago, my response would have been similarly indifferent. I did not understand the significance of the name then, just as they do not understand it now. It's my job to try and educate them, though it is not an easy task.



My education happened slowly, progressively. It started with a single video and a song that echoed in my head and my heart, its message resonating through me for a brief period, only to be forgotten in the everyday chaos that is life. Still, the message and vague memory remained along with a statement of:

"Fuck yes! I am exactly the person that I want to be!" 

If I believed in signs, I would have said that this was one. It had come to me at the time when I had only just begun to realise that the sadness that had been trying to drown me for more than two years was, in fact, more than just sadness and a feeling of having a few down days; that it was depression and that I needed help to keep myself afloat.

Had I come across the song a month, a year, a lifetime earlier, had I been exposed to Amanda in another way, had I had a different introduction, I am fairly certain that our relationship (or, should I say, my relationship with her music) would have been entirely different. Instead, when my boyfriend showed me a Dresden Dolls video weeks later, the image that sprang to mind was of a beautifully imperfect Palmer posed on a stool with a skirt falling in waterfalls around her and speaking to me, just me, from her podium.

From there, my love for the music and the person behind it blossomed to the point where, on finding a group intent on bringing her to South Africa for a performance, I knew that I had to get involved somehow. I had to show my support and thanks for this beautiful person and what she stands for. And what better way to do so than to use the skills available to me? With that in mind, I gathered as many like-minded people as I could find on a Saturday afternoon and hosted an Amanda Palmer photo shoot in my small garage studio.

Our joint passion for the town and the idea of a Palmer Arts Festival performance led to the decision of a Grahamstown specific effort rather than a general plea for a South African tour. Stationing myself behind the camera, where I am most comfortable, I was able to capture our messages, our interpretations of her music, portrayed in a way that we hoped would capture the attention of the woman herself.

Regardless of whether she ends up in Grahamstown/Cape Town/Johannesburg or not, I felt that the messages and the love behind them remain true - Amanda Palmer remains in my (and our) mind(s) and we love her for the person she is, the songs she sings and the difference that she makes in our lives.

Thank you for that, Amanda, and keep doing what you do!

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.

Farewell to Friends

Music rings, emanating from the tent in the corner. Pop songs from the 80's fill the air merging with the purple-pink bubbles that float for an instant before being popped enthusiastically. Laughter abounds mingling with the snippets of conversations that can be heard.

"Remember that time..."

"I wish I had..."

"We should..."



I sit in the corner, my camera poised, taking it all in. I watch as the smoke filled bubbles scatter, exploding in puffs at the slightest touch, and as the glitter balloons are passed from one person to another, never touching the ground, until, all at once, they pop scattering the shards of golden light around the room and all over the already glittered gathering.

We're here to celebrate, and the atmosphere is perfect. Booze line one table, snacks another, and wherever you look there are people talking, laughing, enjoying each others company and reminiscing about the time spent together before the year draws to an end. One last hurrah before the flurry of exams and packing to spread across the country and the world. The final goodbye to the town that seems to be a halfway house somewhere in between high school and where your real life begins. The jol is over, the schlep must start - finding a job, keeping it, paying rent, taking responsibility.

But just for one day, there is no need to think about the joys that adulthood holds. Today, we are not worrying about what is to come, but remembering what has been, basking in the friendships that we cherish, recalling the mistakes that we have made fondly, knowing that they are small when compared to the happiness that we have found in this little  place that we have called home for the last 3, 4 or 5 years.

And, at the end of it all, we leave with a tear in our eye, knowing that things must change, that people must come and go from this place in what feels like a heartbeat, but  always holding that special place for the years spent at Rhodes and in Grahamstown.

To the friends that have left, know that I think of you always. To the friends that are leaving, know that you will be missed. And to the friends that are staying, I look forward to the memories that have yet to be made.

Singing in Harmony

Windmills Performance
Rhodes Chamber Choir
Grahamstown

I stand awkwardly at the back of the room, feeling very out of place amongst the talented individuals that surround me. In a sea of black and white ensembles, I stand out like a sore thumb. I raise my camera to my face as a barrier between me and them. Through the camera, it doesn't matter if I am out of place. It doesn't matter if I am being stared at or doing the staring. The camera acts as my buffer and it makes me feel more at ease.

The practice begins and I weave through the crowd, wincing as the click of my camera pierces the beautiful voices that are echoing around me. I try to time the shots to coincide with their synchronised breathing so that it will be less distracting, but even then the sound rings in my ears and I am embarrassed by it. I am not supposed to be drawing attention to myself, but am supposed to be silently capturing them in these moments. I do not want the posed shots, don't want them to be turning to me and smiling. I want to capture their passion, their warbling, their excitement. That is what I want to see in my photographs rather than seeing a made up face posing for me.

It's not just me. Everyone is a  little on edge at the moment. Each misplaced note is chastised, each mistake reprimanded. There is no time for error now. Practice ends and we file down the passageways towards St Peter's Cathedral. As guests make their way inside, receiving a glass of sherry at the entrance, the choir stands back on the grass while the details for the concert are finalised. The last few guests peter in and take their seats, and the choir start making their way one by one towards the front of the room. They stand before everyone, the nerves written on their faces, their bodies taut. The conductor walks to the piano at the side of the room and plays a single note before taking his position in front of them. He raises his hands and the music begins.

As they sing, you can see the stress floating away from their bodies. It takes longer in some than it does in others, but you can see it nonetheless. They are standing more comfortably than they were at the start. They are singing more confidently. They are starting to enjoy themselves, remembering why it is that they chose to participate in the concert, in the choir, in the first place. Nothing that they had been worried about before matters anymore. The audience fades away and they are no longer singing for anyone but themselves. So what if one note is out of place? It is one note in a myriad of notes, one voice in a symphony of voices. And though the symphony can hide the mistake of one voice, it is that one voice that also pushes the symphony forward, adds to it. The symphony would be nothing if not for the combination of singular voices coming together as one.

Watching them perform is inspiring. I am not a religious person, and therefore take little from their choice of song, but listening to them sing is uplifting nonetheless. It makes me want to push harder, makes me want to be better and makes me want to be a part of something bigger than myself.

I stand on the sidelines and snap photos left, right and centre. But I am not making these photos. I am merely capturing the life that is unfolding before me.

Smoking

Smokie
47
Bradford, Yorkshire

My childhood was filled with music, whether it was listening to it and singing along (much to everyone's annoyance) from the backseat of the car or trying to drown it out as it drifted through the wall that separated my room from my older sister's. I have fond memories of music, and one of the first songs that I remember singing along to was Smokie's Living Next Door to Alice. As I grew older, my music tastes started to change a little, and I started getting more used to the kind of music that drifted in from Cherie's room, but there was always a special place in my heart for Alice, and to this day, when the song comes on the radio I will turn it up and belt it out along with the band. Yet, when Grant suggested that my birthday present should be going to the Smokie concert with him and his brother, I was more than a little dubious. Sure, I loved Alice and a couple of the other songs that I had heard by the band, but I was hardly an expert on their music, and only knew one or two songs overall. I decided that this time, I would rather pay my own way than have it as my birthday present - that way, if I didn't enjoy it quite as much as the boys (who are HUGE Smokie fans), it wouldn't be as much of a disappointment as it would have been had this been my birthday present from my loving boyfriend.



There is nothing quite like a live concert. I have been to a couple in my time - from Westlife, Enrique and Avril Lavigne in my younger years, to the Parlotones, Seether and Just Jinger during my university years and culminating in my Mika experience in Seoul last year. The vibe that a live concert gives off is energetic and infectious, so much so that regardless of which band you are seeing, whether you like their music or not, you end up loving it purely because of the atmosphere. As we got into the car to start the roadtrip to Port Elizabeth (where the concert would be happening) and we started blasting some of the classic Smokie tunes, I started getting a little excited, and the excitement only mounted as we arrived at the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University Sports Centre and found our practically perfect seats (second row from the front, just about in the middle). As the warm-up artist came on, I started singing along to his pretty good Elvis covers, and the excitement inside me reached its full potential as the band came onto the stage (though the full potential of my excitement for Smokie was nowhere close to Shaun's, who started screaming rather loudly in my ear).



"Baie dankie," Mike Craft shouted in his thick British accent, having completed their first song of the night, an unfamiliar one for me. "They keep saying that to us," he explained. "Buy-a-donkey. So now we have tons of them back stage! We don't know what to do with them!"
A giggle spread through the hall, the audience chuckling to themselves and cheering as the next song started. Considering that none of the band members are spring chickens, the energy and enthusiasm that emanated from them was astounding. Each band member posed in turn for the photographers standing in the front, snapping away furiously and trying to get the best angles. Each member's personality shone through as the leadman jumped onto the raised platform and started hitting the drums; the drummer started leaping up and waving his hands or swaying a lighter back and forth; and the bassist (the only original member of the band) started swaying his hips and swinging his silver hair from side to side.



The band were not the type to sit back and ignore the audience, acting as though they were in a league of their own as so many artists tend to do. When someone got up to go to get a drink, the lead singer would ask what they were getting; if someone came back from the bathroom, he would ask if it was good. Embarrassing as it must have been for the people involved, it added to the entertainment for the rest. This, I thought to myself, is what bands should be like. There should be none of this separatism, none of this holier-than-thou rubbish that artists today think that they are entitled to. This is something that Smokie seems to understand - music should be for the people. It is the people who will buy your albums, and you should take note of them and appreciate them. Treat your audience like old friends rather than strangers and you are sure to get further than if you act like they are the devil incarnate.



The show came to a quick close with all of my favourites (or all the songs that I know of anyway) being played including Mexican Girl, Needles and Pins, Don't Play Your Rock n Roll and, of course, Living Next Door to Alice. By the end of the show, people were dancing in the aisles and in the section in front of the stage and the band were wandering past grabbing hands and high-fiving left, right and centre.



As the band left the stage for the final time (after being called back for an encore) Grant, Shaun and I made our way to the bar to get a final round of drinks and avoid the rush for the parking lot.
"What did you think," I asked Shaun. His ticket to the concert was his birthday present from Grant, and I wanted to make sure that he had enjoyed it.
"The best concert I've ever been to," he announced without hesitation. I was quite surprised. Shaun had been to a lot of big concerts.
"Better than Billy Joel?"
He nodded.
"Better than Elton John?"
He nodded emphatically.
"Best concert I've ever been to," he repeated as he stared at the stage as though willing them to come back on just for him.