On the death of a friend

Yesterday, a friend of mine died. We were somewhat estranged, yes. But we were friends. We shared a history. We grew up together. She claimed that we bathed together as children. I don’t see how that could have been possible.

Her mother was a severe Scot, who never really acclimatized to the heat and dust of Africa. She married an Afrikaner and came to despise him and his name. They divorced, leaving her with an only child – my friend. I remember her as a severe, tight-lipped woman with long grey hair, tied in an unforgiving bun. A matron at a general hospital. She would appear tired and irritable at the door of her flat at the end of the day. She would light up a cigarette and settle down in an armchair with a cup of tea – the reward she would give herself for the hard life her now dead husband had left her.

She was entirely unforgiving of her child, who could never do right in her eyes. She was never good enough. She was never clever enough. She would never get anywhere in life. She was too tall. She was too fat. She was too lazy. Yes, it is true, she herself was tired. She worked hard, in difficult conditions and under difficult circumstances. She was a single parent. But she took her despair out on her child, relentlessly.

This woman went to church regularly. The church was in one of the leafier suburbs of Johannesburg – where judges and advocates would go to worship on a Sunday morning. Thinking back on it now, I can see that she was the wrong class for that set. And her religion far too judgemental and singular – to sparse, too lean for a perfect fit. But she was always there. And so was her daughter.

That is where we met – the two of us slightly out of our class. Singing music in the choir neither of our parents would ever normally have listened to. Learning to be polite, in that refined environment. We became friends. We became teenagers. We made pacts with each other, that we would meet in our twenty-first year in Oxford; that we would travel to China; that we would be wild and free.

Life intervened for her. She got married and had a child. And her mother maintained her unwavering air of disapproval. The marriage ended in divorce. The child was brought up first and unsuccessfully by his father and then much more happily by his mother, who, having abandoned her responsibility initially, went back and made good for the rest of his upbringing.

She had some wild moments in her life – like the Indian boyfriend, when such a thing was unheard of and illegal. Like the buckets of marijuana she would get through on a regular basis. Like the spur of the moment (and disastrous) second marriage to an idiot and a fraudster. Like the squander of a small inheritance on holidays in Scotland, when there were much more pressing needs.

But there were some things which were never to change. It was as if the burden of disapproval weighed on her cellular structure. She gained weight to an alarming degree and simply would never shed it. She became sedentary and would sit in a smoke-filled living room watching hours of television and moving only to find another packet of cigarettes. The telephone would be near her. There would be a large, un-emptied waste basket for her butts and a lamp to switch on when it got dark. Her cat or her dog would share the couch.

I came to understand her behaviour as depression of the most profound kind. Every now and again she would seek treatment, but it was always half-hearted and never followed through. It was not something she would discuss with any ease.

She loved a drama, but I saw in later years, that even dramas seemed to prove too much effort for her. So she started to withdraw. Her mother’s death gave her the ability to resign from her job for a few years, and this proved, to my mind, to be the worst possible thing that could have happened to her. Because it enabled her to withdraw completely.

I tried making contact on numerous occasions, but she did not want it. Others have told me the same. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to disengage. Her self- loathing had started to feed on itself and needed the half-light of anonymity to grow and to finally overcome.

And that is how she died. Entirely alone. And when I think about it, I have to come to the conclusion that she was severely damaged. And that the damage caused to her, was caused to that person in turn, by someone else – and that story one may never know.

And so it goes, if one lets it. It travels down the generations, finding new blood for itself. New ground to grow its roots. New air to spread its branches. If one lets it.

You were a brave soul, in many ways, my friend. In some ways you managed to challenge that darkness. Your intentions were always good. You protected your son from the marauding that you had to face. Mostly you did, I think. So, it may be different for him.

But you – you were a victim. And now you are dead.

Well, goodbye my friend. I am sorry I could not help you. I don’t think anyone could. Perhaps, now, the poison has run dry.

More interesting takes on the buriel of Jesus

"Pieta" by Elizabeth Ohlson Wallin, 1998


The "Jesus" in this picture was a gay man, who was about to die of AIDS. The artist wanted him to pick his Pieta. He chose a female leather bar employee, well known in Stockholm for mothering gay man. They posed at the door of the AIDS ward of a Stockholm hospital.

The man wanted people to remember him after his death - but his "Jesus" experienced his own personal resurrection. Shortly after the photo shoot, he began taking the new Aids drug cocktail. A decade later, Ohlson Wallin could proclaim "Jesus is alive!" And the AIDS ward no longer exists.

Information gleaned from Kittredge Cherry, 'Art that Dares. Gay Jesus, Woman Christ and More' Androgyne press, Berkeley CA, 2007.

Interesting takes on the buriel of Jesus

Maerten van Heemskerck - Man of Sorrows

The sheer homo-eroticism of this image has always compelled me. Of course, what is extreme about it, is that one is viewing a dead body. That same tremens et facinens aspect is present in Anglo-catholic practises of the Benediction - where the consecrated host is revealed and worshipped - or, where on Good Friday, the Cross is kissed by members of the congregation. It is, after all, a dead body that is being venerated.

The genius of Elizabeth Ohlson-Wallin - Krucifix

Elizabeth Ohlson-Wallin: Krucifix

The thing which interests me about this crucifix is firstly the sheer artistry of the photograph. Overtones of sexuality permeate the scene. It is, however, sensual, without being in any way offensive. The elements which make it up are entirely natural. There is something essentially voyeuristic about it - not unlike the unveiling and display of the consecrated Host at Benediction. At the same time, the perfect, yet deathly outline of the Cross is apparent, but a cross which one has succumbed to - which has extracted the last from the tormented body. I find it an extraordinary piece of work.

More interesting depictions of the crucifixion

Francis Farmer as Jesus (Artist unknown)

Interesting depictions of the Crucifixion

By Hans Schaufelein (c 1515) and Madonna

The Killing - Edwin Muir

Pic: Becki Jayne Harelson - Crucifixion of Christ

The Killing

Edwin Muir

That was the day they killed the Son of God
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem.
Zion was bare, her children from their maze
Sucked by the dream of curiosity
Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind
Had somehow got themselves up to the hill.
After the ceremonial preparation,
The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood,
Erection of the main-trees with their burden,
While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing,
They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day.
We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw
The three heads turning on their separate axles
Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head
Was loosely bound a crown of plaited thorn
That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow
As the pain swung into its envious circle.
In front the wreath was gathered in a knot
That as he gazed looked like the last stump left
Of a death-wounded deer's great antlers. Some
Who came to stare grew silent as they looked,
Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old
And the hard-hearted young, although at odds
From the first morning, cursed him with one curse,
Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah
And found the Son of God. What use to them
Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail
For purposes such as theirs? Beside the cross-foot,
Alone, four women stood and did not move
All day. The sun revolved, the shadows wheeled,
The evening fell. His head lay on his breast,
But in his breast they watched his heart move on
By itself alone, accomplishing its journey.
Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the knowledge
That he was walking in the park of death,
Far from their rage. Yet all grew stale at last,
Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself.
They waited only for death and death was slow
And came so quietly they scarce could mark it.
They were angry then with death and death's deceit.

I was a stranger, could not read these people
Or this outlandish deity. Did a God
Indeed in dying cross my life that day
By chance, he on his road and I on mine?

Pickled Fish

I had no idea, until moving to Cape Town, just what a big deal Pickled Fish is. It is available in every house in Holy Week - and eaten by Muslim and Christian on Good Friday. My parents migrated from Cape Town to Johannesburg, where I grew up, and I remember my mother cooking this dish for Good Friday every year. Thinking back, it was a tradition she had brought with her to Johannesburg - because no-one else I knew did it.

Pickled Fish


1 bottle brown vinegar (spirit is ok, but I prefer wine)
2 cups brown sugar ( to taste – sauce should be quite sweet)
2 T pickling spice
2 T Turmeric
1 t (possibly more) salt
2 large onions
1 heaped tablespoon hot curry powder
1 packet frozen Whiting – or of course, fresh fish is best (I like Gurnard. I find game fish, such as yellowtail is a bit too strong. Go for the milder varieties, hake, Cape Whiting, Silver etc Fresh Snoek does well, but remember the bones!).

Batter

2 eggs
1 Cup flour
1 t white pepper
Salt and pepper
1 t Corn Flour
Oil

If you are using frozen fish – no need to defrost, turn fish in seasoned (salt and peppered) flour – then dip in beaten egg and fry in oil. (Don’t make the oil too hot and cook the fish slowly). When nicely brown, drain on absorbent paper and cool.

Sauce

Place in a saucepan the bottle of vinegar, sugar, pickling spice, turmeric, curry powder salt and sugar as well as onions cut across the bulb into circles. Bring to the boil and allow to cook until the onions are just tender – with still a bit of crunch in them. When the sauce is ready mix the Corn Flour with a little cold vinegar and then mix into the sauce to thicken.

Arrange the fish in a large glass dish with a lid, and pour over the sauce. Stand for at least a day and then refrigerate.

Bringing a Carnival to life

I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that organising the Cape Town Carnival has been the most complex and difficult job I have ever had. Just before I took up the position of CEO, I was in charge of Fanparks and other social legacy matters for the Western Cape Province, in the 2010 FIFA World Cup. In comparison, it was a doddle.

In the World Cup, I didn’t need to dress the participants. I didn’t need to design their costumes. I didn’t need to bus them to a central place and then put their clothes on them and put make-up on their faces. I didn’t need to feed them. I didn’t need to get them all to the bottom of Long Street at the same time and in order. I didn’t need to get them to practise ten different dance moves which they all needed to do together. I didn’t need to build nine huge floats and arrange for volunteers from three universities to push them and arrange ten different music genres to sound from them. In addition to all of that, I didn’t need to manage 60000 spectators who were watching them!

For the 2010 FIFA World Cup, it was easy. All I needed to do was set up a big screen and a couple of fences and sit back and watch.

But the truth is, that something fundamental happened for Cape Town in the 2010 FIFA World Cup. The people of what must be the most divided city in South Africa, were somehow given permission to enjoy each other and swan around in funny costumes and parade up and down the streets, in the middle of the night. The crowds were completely diverse. There was barely a person in Cape Town who was not positively touched by the spirit of it all, in some way.

And the genius of it all was that you really didn’t need to like soccer! You didn’t even need to understand the rules of the game! All you needed to do was enjoy yourself, and enjoy other people enjoying themselves. The parading around went on regardless.

On 19 March 2011 the Carnival happened in Cape Town. 2 500 volunteers, from communities as diverse as Strand, Grabouw, Hout Bay, Langa and Constantia paraded down Long Street. They were cheered by a crowd of 60 000 people – undoubtedly the most diverse since the soccer World Cup. They danced. They pranced. They strutted in gorgeous costumes. There were birds; creatures from the sea; costumes lit up with LED lights; massive costumes worn by flag-bearers from Brazil. It was an extraordinary sight.

As each float went by, the crowd cheered and clapped. The energy of it all was extraordinary. After the parade was over, the barriers were taken down, and DJ Fresh was let loose on the crowd to weave his particular kind of magic. He tweeted that it was the best gig he had ever done in his life. For one, spectacular night, Cape Town re-experienced the joy and unity of the World Cup. It was an evening of real legacy.

For me, the wonder of the event was in the preparations for it. I saw, in the weeks and months of preparation such a unity of purpose amongst the participants – such extraordinary dedication – such amazing patience and good grace. Because of the fact that I wanted large groups doing the same thing, many of the cultural groups were forced to work together with other groups from different areas – people they had never met before and would probably never work with. The result was an extraordinary demonstration of social cohesion amongst a diverse range of communities.

The same was true of the crowd. It was as mixed as one can possibly get – in terms of race, in terms of gender, in terms of age. And the same was true of the parade itself. The youngest child was 13. The oldest performer, an astonishing 85! There was Muslim, there was Christian, there was Hindu, there was Jewish. It was an amazing thing.

In Brazil, they have one religion, one language and one beat. That is certainly not what we are. Here in Cape Town, in Africa, we celebrate something directly opposite. We celebrate our great and beautiful diversity. That is who we are. And Carnival is the showcase for it all.