Puku Story Festival - Part Two: Story-Telling

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 two of my experience of the festival.

Stories. They fill our minds with wonder and open new worlds for our imaginations to explore. They show us our own world in a way that we had never quite seen it. Whether they're meant for the young or the old, stories allow us to both escape from the world and to find our place in it.

The Puku Story Festival celebrates stories of all forms - sung, spoken, written and acted. It embraces stories that have been written, and encourages the writing of them. It encourages those with a voice to use it in whatever way they can to tell their own stories, and more than anything, it encourages them to tell those stories in their own tongue, and in their own way.

Those who follow this blog may know that I have a tendency to tell stories through photography and explain them through words. I don't want to explain too much today. I think I'll just let the photographs tell their own story of the wonderful Puku Story Festival that I was privileged to be a part of.

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.

Scheherazade

Amy Goodenough
23
Grahamstown


I'd never noticed the tattoo before - the font that twirls around itself to tell a story just like its namesake. Though it's not loud or bold, it speaks volumes about its owner. "Scheherazade" it reads. The storyteller.

As she pivots herself on the edge of the chair, as her hair sways back and forth and as she lies on the warm white rug, Amy Goodenough tells me her story through the way that she moves and the ring of her laughter. I have known her for years, but it feels as though this hour spent in the studio has granted me some kind of insight into her person that I didn't have before.

She reads through her favourite book, selecting passages to read aloud to me. They are passages that I have heard before, but hearing them in her voice makes all the difference, and the words ring through the studio leaving their echoes in my memory so that each time I think of Lemony Snicket, my mind will immediately jump to this afternoon spent together.

As she writes in her journal, I watch her hand fall across the page, her concentration, her word weaving, and I am left in awe. I cannot think of a tattoo more apt for her than Scheherazade, and I will think of her ever more as the story teller.

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!