Dylan simply paints and exhibits, seemingly oblivious to the art debate.

Bob Dylan is having an art exhibition. Some of his paintings, on show to the public have reaped interesting reactions, not all of it defamatory. Dylan is an undoubted musical genius but attempting to move seamlessly between genres and expecting anything but calamity could be naive.

The question that springs to mind is whether Dylan is simply a dilettante or truly believes he has something to add in the genre of painting, maybe managing serruptitiously thereby to add the accolade of artist in an entirely new genre.

By exhibiting his paintings Dylan has created a conundrum, both for music fans as well as reviewers. The debate lies around whether he is serious about these paintings or whether he is just poking fun at people who take art evaluation seriously, analysing and critiquing paintings to an extent that it becomes a subset all of its own, keeping the self styled experts in work.

For the reviewer and art critic as well as long time music fan the dilemma is something of a Catch-22 situation. If one applauds his paintings, is it because of who he is and if one denigrates the same is it also because of who he is.

In fact, one can go even further and ask whether the paintings themselves even matter in an exhibition by Bob Dylan. Unfortunately for the man, his work cannot be judged impartially never mind objectively and even if some works sell for ridiculously silly amounts of cash, would it make any difference to the actual evaluation of his work. 

 Arrogance in believing that he could simply shift genres with a bit of sleight of hand seems to be an accusation aimed at the man by some purist fans and outraged art critics. This all rides on the presumption that Bob is actually taking the painting seriously instead of just daubing around and having a bit of fun at the expense of fans, critics and other more serious minded people.

Assuming that he is taking this venture serious is an assumption that he has no sense of humour which would be an entirely erroneous one. This writer purposely did not add visuals here as the paintings themselves seem almost extraneous to a good debate.

Artspace in the district.

Different angle of domination architecture in the district.

Reflections on the corner in Melville.

Reflections at Resolution Gallery, Parkwood, Johannesburg.

Domination architecture in the Gallery District, Parkwood, Johannesburg.

A quite astonishing example of domination architecture as the building on the right above the Engen garage simply overlooks everything else.

 

David Goldblatt exhibition entitled JOBURG at the Goodman Gallery.

 David Goldblatt is a photographer with a deep and abiding sense of and feel for detail. This is apparent from the first tentative steps taken into the gallery by the visitor and the immediate impression is of a man who thinks and plans before snapping away and, in fact that same thought remains with the visitor for a long time after they have left the gallery.

 

Attention to detail is such an overused and abused phrase, thrown in countless times where it didn’t fit into a description and yet it goes here without saying.

 

A quote from him in a recent edition of Empire magazine struck me as epitomising the man and his yearning for people to look at his work for its own sake and not in the context of who the photographer is or the man behind the lens.

 

 “I don’t see my work as having any influence on anybody. I don’t think anybody has ever done anything, on account of a photograph of mine. I really mean that.”

 

The distinct feeling that this writer brings back from the gallery is of pictures that really do stand alone and demand attention if the viewer is to grasp that depth and subtlety behind the choices of location, camera angle and subject.

 

An hour spent was in fact too short a time and the exhibition will see this writer returning to peruse at length and marvel at the simplicity of what real pictures actually entail. Considered usage of the camera. 

 

If a picture tells a thousand words than the viewer or listener has to pay deep attention because these pictures reward a bit of patience.

 

Home is where the pen writes.

portent \POR-tent\, noun:

1. A sign of a coming event or calamity; an omen.
2. Prophetic or menacing significance.
3. Something amazing; a marvel.

This arrived in my inbox. I am watching Kill Bill. I have discovered a place that sells fresh curry leaves. I am reading ‘Underworld’ by Don De Lillo and am transfixed.

I got some new writing work, sort of PR but it’s a challenge. I cooked pork sausages I bought from the butcher in Valley shopping centre and I remembered why it’s so legendary. Ever had pork sausages that smelt and tasted like real pork. Doesn’t happen that often.

Bought a kilo of cleaned tripe. Not the same as cleaning it oneself but it saves time. The only thing that Uma Thurman has not done yet is marry me.

Dreamed about the Transkei last night and find myself homesick despite the quick fix and instant gratification nightmare that is Joburg. I want potholes and crazy people. Hours on the road where I don’t see a whitey for miles and people are intrigued because whiteys don’t usually stick around.

The city centre that comprises a group of hawkers selling fresh veggies and fruit. The taxi rank where the drivers are just as crazy, if not more so, than Joburg but far more relaxed. Maybe Transkei A Grade. The backpackers that have lost their way and are at the mercy of the Transkei ebb and flow. The Vubu flooding the sea with mud for 4 or 5 kilimetres and the feeling in the air of something, a portent of strangeness still to come.

It’s where Nelson Mandela sent Chris Hani when De Klerk revoked his amnesty.

It’s where my home now lies although it is not a fixed abode but rather a place in time that I can lay claim to and call my own.

Nights in a tent where the only sound is the ocean, tree dassies and frogs. I still can’t really put it into words, not through lack of trying but it always sounds cheesy, romantic and downright utopian. It’s not safe. There are far more ways to die than there are on offer in Joburg, much to ire of the big city.

Headlines abducted by soapie about racist columnist being fired, then employed.

It’s a Saturday morning and I am on my way to rent a copy of ‘No Direction Home’. The movie made by Martin Scorsese that I want to watch in the same week as Dylan received a Pulitzer, the week that a new Scorsese about The Stones gets released, the week a military junta take de facto control of Zimbabwe although the South African media have taken an age to wake up and most still carry on their personal vendetta against Bob.

My plans are thwarted by an occupational hazard that afflicts the movie renter, the REM blonde at the counter smiles brazenly and states that it has not been returned. My mind struggles to absorb this blow and I turn away and search for a reason to feel happy. Strange how it’s the little things that make a difference.

Eventually settling for ‘Sin City’ and another rerun of those great one liners amidst the landscape of littered, forgotten heroes in their own minds, a supreme escapist remedy.

Racing back home my senses are jolted as peripheral vision takes in a headline poster with rational mind summarily discarding it but it repeats again, 500 m later, only this time far more vehemently. The word “Bullard’ in the headlines seems strange to a mind wired to see Zimbabwe, Bob, Mugabe, quiet diplomacy or any mix of the aforementioned buzz words.

Halt, reverse and re-engage with the posters. Yes, it is true. “Bullard writes for us”. “Why Bullard had to go”.

On a weekend with an extraordinary summit taking place to try and make sense of Mugabe and the playground of his mind, I am standing staring at headlines that promise important content in certain publications about the summary firing than summary hiring of a columnist for racist or satirical writing.

Editorial devoted to justifying the firing and opposing editorial devoted to justifying the hiring. This guy must be important.

My mind returns to a post on the blog about precisely this topic but it all seemed unimportant compared to election results that were simply vaporised, election officials that were transferred offline and a leader called Bob who won’t leave his playground to go and try to convince African leaders of his latest conspiracy theories about US involvement in fixing the elections.

Reaching for the digital to zoom in on this apparent anomaly, I have to grin and glance around at other motorists just driving by and living out their lives.

The South African media, or certain enclaves of it are a curious bunch. Nobody else seems to remember the disastrous event when certain hacks, editors and other accomplices had to stand confronted by their gamble that hadn’t paid off. Backing Mbeki to landslide Polokwane has to stand as a defining moment in SA media and their belief in their own myth.

The headlines I confront are a variation on a similar theme as one paper fires a columnist for being racist, another hires him for satirical purposes before the smoke has even cleared and the opposing groups put forward justification and rebuttal all in an attempt to pander to the fickle whims of the soapie addicted readership.

A bit of smoke and mirrors on the horizon here as I expect to see some PR battalions complete with groupies arriving in a dazzling display of glitz and glam and glowering at any party pooper.

At the least there should be a book deal and movie potential as well as the ubiquitous debate that will rage in all public forums around the effects of columnists on readership and the overwhelming and absolute need for freedom speech, all keeping the spin alive.

These events spark a wry grin and a fleeting wish to be involved with a PR exercise unfolding before disbelieving eyes, I could do with the cash. To be there at the moment of history when headlines are usurped by trivial spats around people that don’t make the news, only embellish it to their own advantage, now that’s wag the dog taken to ridiculous levels.

The end result is a column written in The Saturday Star and not memorable for anything except the distinct feeling that this was jotted down in a flurry with a borrowed pen on a scrap piece of Rand Club table cloth.

One thing does jolt the cynic and add a hologram of meaning to proceedings. The scribe suggests that the world might boycott the football in 2010 in anger at South Africa and it’s dithering with quiet diplomacy over Zimbabwe.

The end result of a defcon 3 PR drill, a display of weapons for intimidatory purposes is confirmation that columnists may come and go but the unverified, unconfirmed and creative, seditious rumour does indeed drive newspaper sales.

In fact, one could go further and state that one persons gossip is another persons gullibility.

For the record The Saturday Star has employed David Bullard and their headline was ,“Bullard writes for us”.

The Weekender was in solidarity with stable mate Sunday Times, who had fired Bullard after 14 years, and their headline was, “Why Bullard had to go”.

Idle time at the Jolly Roger in Parkhurst.

This text is from the Johnnie Walker ad across the road at the bottle store. It’s been there since as long as anybody can remember, in fact it’s possible that these words have been there since time out of mind. That is the time before memory began, don’t forget this kind of quote has been seen as an exhortation to drink and a futile excuse for countless dreamers.