It has been quite a while since I have posted my last blog - and the reason for this has been mainly my work schedule and the very busy December period, but also mainly since I have really felt that I have had very little that I have wanted to say in the last month or so. And those of you that regularly read my blog ( the five of you!) will know that I tend to not write unless I have something that I honestly feel I want to write about.
This will be my last blog of 2010 and I hope to summarize what it is that I have learnt this year – because, for me, this has been one of those years that presents itself in the form of a learning curve. How I hate those.
Katy Perry, for those of you that don't know, she's a pop singer, recently released a song called ''Firework'', a song that is meant to inspire people to show the world what value they have and what value they have to share with others. Roughly, having only heard it once or twice, the lyrics say something along the lines of: ''Baby, you're a firework, go and show them what you're worth...''
For a while, I thought that this was a very interesting song that obviously had the intention of inspiring people to ''stop hiding their talent under a bushel'' as the Bible would say, but later, it had me wondering exactly why she chose ''fireworks'' as a metaphor for a person's inner value.
The reason for this philosophical query was rooted in this: a firework is fleeting.
It loses it's shine. It sparkles for what can be a couple of minutes and after that it fades to dust and ash.
Maybe this is a very good example of how the world we live in has changed?
Does this song imply that we live in a world where it is fine if one only illuminates the night-sky for a very short period, as long as one actually does illuminate?
We live in a world filled with instant fame, instant pop stars, instant fortune, instant coffee and even instant recognition. We hear of so many celebrities ending up in rehab, or even worse, off the radar, and it begs the question: is this what it has all come to? A moment in the sky and forever on the ground?
Wow.
Well, maybe I am reading too much into these lyrics...
And then my brain started digging further into this metaphor, as one does, and I realized that people are only impressed by fireworks for a very short time.
I remember at the end of 2009, I was sitting on Blaauwbergstrand, watching all the fireworks being shot into the harbour from the Waterfront. Yes, a first it was exciting, and ''ooh's'' and ''aah's'' were heard all along the beach, but as more and more of the same started coming along, the novelty started wearing off and it became an ''almost-impressive'' display of lights.
On the other hand, every time I look up at Table Mountain or everytime I look out over the vastness of the ocean, I can sit for hours and hours staring at it's wonderful complexities.
In South Africa, we had the FIFA 2010 World Cup – and what an anticipated firework display that was ! Finally, Africa had the chance to show the world our ''bright lights'' and oh, did we show them! But, was it enough to sustain this shiny image of our country in the eyes of the world?
I would argue no. Months later when reports were heard that a newly-wed British tourist had been killed in the township of Gugulethu, this faded. The ash fell to the ground and the fireworks had, once again, been extinguished.
As for the rest of this year, and now I am referring to things of a more personal nature, the ''firework-effect'' (If Barbara Streisand could have her own effect, then why can't I?) was eminent in my own life and in the lives of those closest to me.
I realized that relationships can burn like fireworks, exciting and adventurous and new at first, but can fade after years and years into a small pile of ash, cold from it's long journey down.
I have learned that an ideal job can become mundane and turn into an effort.
But, most importantly I have learned that I rely on fireworks in my own life and in my relationships with people. People are enthused by me for a short while, but once the sparkle is lost, I am, like everyone else, a pile of burnt-out dust.
An interesting pile of dust... but a pile of dust nonetheless.
This taught me a lot about myself as a performer and as a person. If you've wowed people once, you are going to have to work very hard on your next attempt to make sure that what you are giving isn't going to be more of the same.
So many times I think I have relied on the ''firework'' aspect of my performances, that I have forgotten that people eventually want to sit on a beach and watch the ocean – that fireworks can lose their sparkle. Catch my drift?
And so, as I come to the end of another year, I look back and wonder: for how long are we going to be content with ''lights''?
When are we going to learn that we need to build an impression stone by stone, year after year, performance after performance and work after work?
Is it because the firework-effect is easier than building a reputation and a respectful admiration?
I think so.
I think that the idea and the prospect of having to work to ''show what you are worth'' tends to put a lot of people off. Why do so little of the Idols winners make it in the industry? Is it because they have realized that the ''instant sparkle'' wears off and eventually, when it comes to the nitty-gritty, so many back down?
Have we become too convenient? Have we made it too easy for ourselves to be noticed?
Have we forgotten about times in history when men had to fight in cold-blooded wars, just to be honored with a badge on their uniform? Where singers started singing in pubs and eventually, through hard work and dedication proved themselves to be true artistes?
I think we have forgotten. Conveniently so.
And therefore, my fellow bloggers, as I am sitting here, once again, with a stunning glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, I would like to encourage each and every one of you to stop relying on fireworks. To start relying on a mountain or an ocean or the longevity of any such wonders.
I am certainly going to try to do just that in 2011.
Perhaps it is then that we will be able to really distinguish between those who have talent and those who are talented. Between the ''one-night stands'' and the partners for life. Between the true celebrities and the celebutantes.
So here's to: the ashes of 2010, the foundations of 2011 and the impressive force that will guide us for the years that follow.
May we all rise up to the occasion and may we stop being satisfied with novelties.
Thank you to everyone who has given me such support with this blog over the past year, thank you for the comments, the numerous Facebook messages and the quick texts to say 'thank you' for an inspiration that was derived from reading this. You are the reason I write and will continue writing.
I salute you.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Ready, set... wait.
''Life is a highway...''
This particular song, a song that I have heard many times on the radio, has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days. Given the nature of such things, when one repeats a phrase over and over, new meanings develop themselves within the very fibre of the sound of the phrase.
And every time that I have repeated this song, mostly on my scooter on my way somewhere, the phrase has developed into something more.
Driving in the CBD of Cape Town, to those that live here, can be frustrating. Cape Town seems to have robot after robot after robot and it seems, well, to me at least, like most of them are absolutely pointless.
The constant stop and start is a frustration to any motorist. It drives you insane to stop at a robot and wait for the invisible oncoming traffic to cross.
And it got me thinking about that highway again. When the lyricist wrote that song, he obviously envisioned life as a never-ending highway that can lead you anywhere and that offers you the chance to cruise. Let's explore this metaphor some more.
If life is a highway, then I suppose trials and tribulations that come our way are the flat tires or the overheated engine or the shortage of gas in the fuel tank. Once the problem is fixed, one moves on and the cruise continues. The destination is some far-off, desolate place that only the driver knows of and will never share.
A highway is also (I am imagining the stretch of desert on Route 66) a passage that passes you through places to get to where you want to be.
But, for me, this is where the metaphor ends.
Lately, I've been thinking that it would be improbable to say that ''life is a highway'' and only a highway.
It seems that life can more accurately be described as a network of roads, all interjecting, all crossing one another at some stage.
And at the moment, I am driving in that CBD.
My life has had it's ups and it's downs and it's had it's flat tires and it's overheated engines and it has most certainly had it's shortages of fuel, but at the moment, I am not facing anything so dire. Nothing is preventing me from getting to where I want to be, well, nothing major at least.
It just seems like my life is an endless array of waiting for the light to turn green. I know the light will turn green sometime, but when? That is the question that I am plagued with daily.
Every day that I feel like I'm finally cruising, I face yet another robot, another pointless waiting period.
And sometimes, I wish that life was like a highway, with it's major obstacles that stop a destination right in it's tracks, because at least then I could be sure of the fact that that was the end, or the temporary end. Or then at least, I could fix the problem and move on, and learn from it. Now, I'm constantly faced with short, momentary lapses in my cruising, that stops the vehicle from ever being pushed to full throttle.
It feels like every time that I plan on something, I have to yield or I have to wait for something to come through, or some incident to blow over, or some friendship to rekindle it's former glory.
It seems as if everything that I want is a couple of blocks away and I can't get there yet, because I'm stuck in traffic.
Everyone has their dreams a couple of blocks away.
And yet, it frustrates me to think that I cannot physically do anything to help this. I believe this has to do with my lack of patience in achieving what it is I want to do. And I also believe that the fact that I cannot do something about these lapses, if they can be so aptly called, is playing again on the fact that I hate being helpless. I pity helpless people, resent them even, since I always believe that where there is a way there is, almost always, a way.
Yet, I have the will, I am on my way and I still cannot do anything about the fact that I am stuck – until whoever decides that I can now move on.
Thinking about all of these frustrations made me think a little about the reason we have robots. They are there to regulate traffic, to slow down the speed that driver's are driving and to make sure that chaos doesn't ensue because everyone wants their turn.
So, are robots a good thing, then?
I have come to the conclusion, within my limited frame of reference, that they are.
I have come to realize that: just because I want to get to my destination now, does not mean that someone else, perhaps someone who has been on the road longer than I have, does not have the same ambition.
If we all drove without the regulatory codes and the restrictive rules, chaos would definitely ensue, because we live in an age where waiting is not an option. Where everyone wants everything they want now. And to be honest, it would be selfish of me to think that my dreams and goals are any more important than that of my fellow road-user.
So, I have decided to enjoy the 'lapses'.
Yes, it can be frustrating and yes, sometimes we do wish that we were on an open stretch of road where the only thing that limits us is the accelerator.
But, as Harold Pinter would put it, it is in the silences that life unveils itself more.
He believed that, in drama, the silences between the dialogue were just as important, if not more so, than the dialogue itself. And after three years of drama, I think that I am finally starting to understand that.
When we pause, whether it is because we have to or because we choose to, it is a moment where we can take in every little detail of where it is that we are at that moment. A moment where stories can unveil themself to us.
It's then that we notice the missing teeth of the fruit-seller on the corner of the street, the beauty of Table Mountain framing this magnificent city and the smell of exotic food being cooked in the restaurant that we would never have visited or paid any attention to.
Sometimes, it also serves to remind us that our dreams are not always as amazing as we have thought them out to be.
But, more importantly than that, it serves to remind us that: ''good things come to those who wait.''
That reaching the destination is far more worth it, if you had to wait for it.
So, as I am sitting here with my glass of Pinotage pining for a refill, I raise my half-empty glass to those stuck in traffic, to those who have reached their dreams and beyond, to those just starting out their journey, to those who are almost at the destination and to those who, like me, are stuck somewhere at a robot waiting for it to turn green.
May your destinations be worth the wait, may your ''lapses'' be short-lived and may you always have the will to start moving again, when the time comes to do so.
This particular song, a song that I have heard many times on the radio, has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days. Given the nature of such things, when one repeats a phrase over and over, new meanings develop themselves within the very fibre of the sound of the phrase.
And every time that I have repeated this song, mostly on my scooter on my way somewhere, the phrase has developed into something more.
Driving in the CBD of Cape Town, to those that live here, can be frustrating. Cape Town seems to have robot after robot after robot and it seems, well, to me at least, like most of them are absolutely pointless.
The constant stop and start is a frustration to any motorist. It drives you insane to stop at a robot and wait for the invisible oncoming traffic to cross.
And it got me thinking about that highway again. When the lyricist wrote that song, he obviously envisioned life as a never-ending highway that can lead you anywhere and that offers you the chance to cruise. Let's explore this metaphor some more.
If life is a highway, then I suppose trials and tribulations that come our way are the flat tires or the overheated engine or the shortage of gas in the fuel tank. Once the problem is fixed, one moves on and the cruise continues. The destination is some far-off, desolate place that only the driver knows of and will never share.
A highway is also (I am imagining the stretch of desert on Route 66) a passage that passes you through places to get to where you want to be.
But, for me, this is where the metaphor ends.
Lately, I've been thinking that it would be improbable to say that ''life is a highway'' and only a highway.
It seems that life can more accurately be described as a network of roads, all interjecting, all crossing one another at some stage.
And at the moment, I am driving in that CBD.
My life has had it's ups and it's downs and it's had it's flat tires and it's overheated engines and it has most certainly had it's shortages of fuel, but at the moment, I am not facing anything so dire. Nothing is preventing me from getting to where I want to be, well, nothing major at least.
It just seems like my life is an endless array of waiting for the light to turn green. I know the light will turn green sometime, but when? That is the question that I am plagued with daily.
Every day that I feel like I'm finally cruising, I face yet another robot, another pointless waiting period.
And sometimes, I wish that life was like a highway, with it's major obstacles that stop a destination right in it's tracks, because at least then I could be sure of the fact that that was the end, or the temporary end. Or then at least, I could fix the problem and move on, and learn from it. Now, I'm constantly faced with short, momentary lapses in my cruising, that stops the vehicle from ever being pushed to full throttle.
It feels like every time that I plan on something, I have to yield or I have to wait for something to come through, or some incident to blow over, or some friendship to rekindle it's former glory.
It seems as if everything that I want is a couple of blocks away and I can't get there yet, because I'm stuck in traffic.
Everyone has their dreams a couple of blocks away.
And yet, it frustrates me to think that I cannot physically do anything to help this. I believe this has to do with my lack of patience in achieving what it is I want to do. And I also believe that the fact that I cannot do something about these lapses, if they can be so aptly called, is playing again on the fact that I hate being helpless. I pity helpless people, resent them even, since I always believe that where there is a way there is, almost always, a way.
Yet, I have the will, I am on my way and I still cannot do anything about the fact that I am stuck – until whoever decides that I can now move on.
Thinking about all of these frustrations made me think a little about the reason we have robots. They are there to regulate traffic, to slow down the speed that driver's are driving and to make sure that chaos doesn't ensue because everyone wants their turn.
So, are robots a good thing, then?
I have come to the conclusion, within my limited frame of reference, that they are.
I have come to realize that: just because I want to get to my destination now, does not mean that someone else, perhaps someone who has been on the road longer than I have, does not have the same ambition.
If we all drove without the regulatory codes and the restrictive rules, chaos would definitely ensue, because we live in an age where waiting is not an option. Where everyone wants everything they want now. And to be honest, it would be selfish of me to think that my dreams and goals are any more important than that of my fellow road-user.
So, I have decided to enjoy the 'lapses'.
Yes, it can be frustrating and yes, sometimes we do wish that we were on an open stretch of road where the only thing that limits us is the accelerator.
But, as Harold Pinter would put it, it is in the silences that life unveils itself more.
He believed that, in drama, the silences between the dialogue were just as important, if not more so, than the dialogue itself. And after three years of drama, I think that I am finally starting to understand that.
When we pause, whether it is because we have to or because we choose to, it is a moment where we can take in every little detail of where it is that we are at that moment. A moment where stories can unveil themself to us.
It's then that we notice the missing teeth of the fruit-seller on the corner of the street, the beauty of Table Mountain framing this magnificent city and the smell of exotic food being cooked in the restaurant that we would never have visited or paid any attention to.
Sometimes, it also serves to remind us that our dreams are not always as amazing as we have thought them out to be.
But, more importantly than that, it serves to remind us that: ''good things come to those who wait.''
That reaching the destination is far more worth it, if you had to wait for it.
So, as I am sitting here with my glass of Pinotage pining for a refill, I raise my half-empty glass to those stuck in traffic, to those who have reached their dreams and beyond, to those just starting out their journey, to those who are almost at the destination and to those who, like me, are stuck somewhere at a robot waiting for it to turn green.
May your destinations be worth the wait, may your ''lapses'' be short-lived and may you always have the will to start moving again, when the time comes to do so.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Everyone, except...
I have been staying in Cape Town, South Africa now for about 3 years. I have been clothing, feeding, driving myself, working and been going to college for 3 years straight now – without a proper holiday anywhere in-between.
I am tired.
There is no point in telling myself the everlasting lie that “I am fine.” I’m not.
I have come to a point where I sit on the floor of my room, looking at my work uniform – hoping that it would magically and by some strange enchantment disappear into thin air. It doesn’t – and by this time I am already late and have to scramble to get to work, only to arrive exhausted and out of breath, to go home after work, to fall asleep, to wake up tired and to reluctantly get onto that strange rollercoaster once again.
One does tire of it.
And when I think back – when I used to imagine taking care of myself, paying my own way, doing what my heart desired and never having to answer to someone – it’s so different. Not that I didn’t think it would be any different – this is a fact I have long made peace with – nothing is ever as you imagine it. That’s one of the basic rules of life.
But, I guess that I always felt as if I was some sort of exception to that rule.
I thought I was the ‘chosen child’ – the one whose life will be different than the average, the mediocre. Forgive me if I sound at all vain – but I thought I was a unique individual whose life would be one that others are jealous of.
It’s not.
And that’s because I’m not the exception to the rule.
Nobody really is.
Then why is it that I often will find myself elevating myself to such higher pedestals? Is it because I am an idealistic (see last blog) hopeless romantic who believes that life is about lazy Sunday afternoons, long walks on the beach, wine with friends and long conversations about life?
Is it because I have created in my mind this idea that life is easy?
Because I was wrong. It’s not – and as special as I thought I was – I’m really not.
Life is hard, it’s challenging, it’s exhausting and I have very often asked the question: why me?
This whole notion of being a part of the masses has been something that has been plaguing me for some time now, since I’ve devoted my entire life to standing out.
I have been feeling frustrated with the whole idea for a couple of weeks now until something incredible happened.
I was invited to a fund-raiser for Breast Cancer in SA – I was invited to sing – and a woman (who had survived breast cancer) got up to make her speech. That day, something she said struck me as profound. Life-changing, even.
She explained how she had often, during her treatments asked God: “why me?” until she got the answer one day: “why not you?”
This struck me like a bolt of lighting and suddenly the rusty gears in my head started slowly turning again.
Why is it that I feel that life should be an exception to me – when it’s not like that for everyone else?
Life may not offer every one the same problems, some differ, but we all have them at some point.
And maybe it’s this that makes us human? The fact that life is never kind.
I’ve accepted that – I think – I don’t know.
Since that day – with that speech – and that woman’s words, I’ve began looking at things differently.
I would be lying if I said that I am suddenly “loving my life and loving all the trials and tribulations” and “being grateful for the things that happen to me.”
But I have stopped asking: why me?
Baby steps, people.
And I’ve stopped believing that I should be an exception to the rule. Rather now, I have started to believe that if I wanted my life to be exception(al), I was going to have to just live through this for now. It takes a rough diamond to shape a smooth one, or something like that, right?
So - tonight I will climb into bed and think on all those young people out there who still have to learn all of this – and I will be glad that I have been fortunate that life has been a fair teacher so far. I will think of the life that I dream to have and I will start making choices that will ultimately get me that life. And I will be glad for the lessons I have learned up until now.
And, to some extent, I will be glad that I am not the exception to the rule.
I am tired.
There is no point in telling myself the everlasting lie that “I am fine.” I’m not.
I have come to a point where I sit on the floor of my room, looking at my work uniform – hoping that it would magically and by some strange enchantment disappear into thin air. It doesn’t – and by this time I am already late and have to scramble to get to work, only to arrive exhausted and out of breath, to go home after work, to fall asleep, to wake up tired and to reluctantly get onto that strange rollercoaster once again.
One does tire of it.
And when I think back – when I used to imagine taking care of myself, paying my own way, doing what my heart desired and never having to answer to someone – it’s so different. Not that I didn’t think it would be any different – this is a fact I have long made peace with – nothing is ever as you imagine it. That’s one of the basic rules of life.
But, I guess that I always felt as if I was some sort of exception to that rule.
I thought I was the ‘chosen child’ – the one whose life will be different than the average, the mediocre. Forgive me if I sound at all vain – but I thought I was a unique individual whose life would be one that others are jealous of.
It’s not.
And that’s because I’m not the exception to the rule.
Nobody really is.
Then why is it that I often will find myself elevating myself to such higher pedestals? Is it because I am an idealistic (see last blog) hopeless romantic who believes that life is about lazy Sunday afternoons, long walks on the beach, wine with friends and long conversations about life?
Is it because I have created in my mind this idea that life is easy?
Because I was wrong. It’s not – and as special as I thought I was – I’m really not.
Life is hard, it’s challenging, it’s exhausting and I have very often asked the question: why me?
This whole notion of being a part of the masses has been something that has been plaguing me for some time now, since I’ve devoted my entire life to standing out.
I have been feeling frustrated with the whole idea for a couple of weeks now until something incredible happened.
I was invited to a fund-raiser for Breast Cancer in SA – I was invited to sing – and a woman (who had survived breast cancer) got up to make her speech. That day, something she said struck me as profound. Life-changing, even.
She explained how she had often, during her treatments asked God: “why me?” until she got the answer one day: “why not you?”
This struck me like a bolt of lighting and suddenly the rusty gears in my head started slowly turning again.
Why is it that I feel that life should be an exception to me – when it’s not like that for everyone else?
Life may not offer every one the same problems, some differ, but we all have them at some point.
And maybe it’s this that makes us human? The fact that life is never kind.
I’ve accepted that – I think – I don’t know.
Since that day – with that speech – and that woman’s words, I’ve began looking at things differently.
I would be lying if I said that I am suddenly “loving my life and loving all the trials and tribulations” and “being grateful for the things that happen to me.”
But I have stopped asking: why me?
Baby steps, people.
And I’ve stopped believing that I should be an exception to the rule. Rather now, I have started to believe that if I wanted my life to be exception(al), I was going to have to just live through this for now. It takes a rough diamond to shape a smooth one, or something like that, right?
So - tonight I will climb into bed and think on all those young people out there who still have to learn all of this – and I will be glad that I have been fortunate that life has been a fair teacher so far. I will think of the life that I dream to have and I will start making choices that will ultimately get me that life. And I will be glad for the lessons I have learned up until now.
And, to some extent, I will be glad that I am not the exception to the rule.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
And as I looked around, the snow crowded my head...
So finally, I have come to writing another blog. This has not been due to laziness or ‘not having the time’; it’s based purely on the fact that I had nothing that I wanted to write about.
Of course there were many subjects I could write about, but not too many I really wanted to write about. For any writer, be it novelist, columnist, blogger, poet, there is a fine, fine line that exists between the possibilities of what can be written and what has to be written. The line of which tends to haze and blur from time to time. I believe that it is important to write when you should.
Like the old saying: “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything.”
I suppose this applies to the written word as well.
Now if only Stephenie Meyer could grasp this concept. Just kidding.
As of late my brain has been racked with different emotions, thoughts, plans, theories, stories and memories – and for anyone that has a life that doesn’t seem to pause at any given stage, this can be quite alarming. Some thoughts render you motionless for a few minutes/hours/days, others are fleeting and easily dismissed.
According to research, people who are going through times of emotional distress and uncertainty can often experience a yearning for ‘a higher power’.
In my case, I became intrigued with the notion of astrology. Now, don’t get me wrong or misunderstand my dilemma. I do not believe that our lives are controlled by the planets, the position of the stars or the energies from our solar system. I believe that our star signs can say a lot about who we are, what we believe and how we experience the world.
Yeah, I can buy into that.
I’m a proud Aquarian and according to my star sign profile: “Aquarians are born looking for ideologies to which they can stubbornly cling.”
So if I understand this correctly, Aquarians cling to the ideals they have created for themselves or that have been created for them. They create idealized worlds, ideas and stories and refuse to believe that there is any difference between the world that they have created and the world outside.
This got me thinking – and like some strange alternative visual artist – I came up with the idea that we all are walking around with a snow globe around our heads.
Strange, isn’t it?
Snowglobes have been fascinating me for a long, long time. People are intrigued by them; people adore them, marvel at their beauty and are mesmerized by the little flakes of snow that gently waft down when they are shaken.
What is it about them that spark such interest, such adoration? What makes people tip them over? Just to see the snow gently falling?
My theories brought me back to a conclusion which entails two different ideas, and if you’ll allow me, I shall explain them to you.
Firstly, the idea that everything in a snowglobe is beautiful and idealized and perfect.
If you have a snowglobe with the Eiffel Tower on the inside, there is no indication of the rusty steel structure; one only sees the shiny, silver tower pointing to the heavens.
In the city of New York, the Bronx is nowhere to be seen, but the skyscrapers are covered in yellow lights, the city’s smog is replaced with clear water; and snow (or glitter for that matter) is softly caressing the top of the city’s skyline.
Do we love these little ornaments so much because they represent an idealized world where the bad is nowhere to be seen, and the good is lit up, shiny, glittery and beautiful?
This is half of the reason that I said that I think we walk around with snowglobes around our heads.
Throughout my life, I have created my own snowglobe-world that I carry around with me and that influences the way I see the world. My Aquarian ideologies, one can say.
I suspect I’m not the only one.
The second half of my theory rests upon the idea that we all love seeing snow falling.
Now, I don’t mean this in a literal sense (I mean, obviously), I want to go back a few paragraphs to where I asked the questions: “What makes people tip them over? Just to see the snow gently falling?”.
My theory on this is that the snow represents a sense of continuity, a sense of safety. Because we know that when it is tipped over and chaos ensues (as is often the case in life), it will eventually come down again to reveal all that is good and pretty and ideal.
No-one ever wonders whether the snow is going to continue dangling mid air – we KNOW that it will have to come down sooner or later.
For me, that is what the snowglobe around my own head represents. The idea that it’s alright if things get a little foggy and cloudy from time to time – as long as it settles down after a bit.
That, for me, in my own ideology, is the way the world works.
Except, it doesn’t, does it?
The world doesn’t always settle down after it’s been tipped over. The snow sometimes continually falls and swirls around in our headspace.
Sometimes the snowglobe tips and never comes back around again.
Invariably, this happens.
For someone like myself, an ideologist, the un-ideal world is a scary place. An out of rhythm, out of sync world. A world where perfect families tear in two, where perfect jobs became boring and mundane, where people whom you love don’t love you back.
And sometimes, it gets hard. It gets hard to understand how this world could possibly function alongside the world you have created.
It gets hard to understand that everything you have always thought to be true was a lie, everything you wanted to be true; never was.
And it’s then that your eyes are opened to how life really is, how things really work. Things are never perfect, but then again – neither are we. Things are not ideal, but they never can be, because we are not.
And it’s this – this imperfection – that, in its own way - is kind of beautiful.
There is a sense of mystery that surrounds it.
Suddenly you start seeing that what you have created is nothing compared to what is real.
And it only takes one crack in the glass for the water to start leaking.
To live a life without my ideals and ideologies. A life where disasters happen, and don’t just happen to other people, but to me. This is the conclusion I have come to.
A life where it’s alright if the snow never settles, because you can’t change it.
A life without the world inside my snowglobe. A life without the snow in my snowglobe.
And as I’m sitting here writing this, I hold up my half a glass of Merlot and toast:
To you the reader, to no ideals, to no expectations and, lastly, to smashing snowglobes.
Of course there were many subjects I could write about, but not too many I really wanted to write about. For any writer, be it novelist, columnist, blogger, poet, there is a fine, fine line that exists between the possibilities of what can be written and what has to be written. The line of which tends to haze and blur from time to time. I believe that it is important to write when you should.
Like the old saying: “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything.”
I suppose this applies to the written word as well.
Now if only Stephenie Meyer could grasp this concept. Just kidding.
As of late my brain has been racked with different emotions, thoughts, plans, theories, stories and memories – and for anyone that has a life that doesn’t seem to pause at any given stage, this can be quite alarming. Some thoughts render you motionless for a few minutes/hours/days, others are fleeting and easily dismissed.
According to research, people who are going through times of emotional distress and uncertainty can often experience a yearning for ‘a higher power’.
In my case, I became intrigued with the notion of astrology. Now, don’t get me wrong or misunderstand my dilemma. I do not believe that our lives are controlled by the planets, the position of the stars or the energies from our solar system. I believe that our star signs can say a lot about who we are, what we believe and how we experience the world.
Yeah, I can buy into that.
I’m a proud Aquarian and according to my star sign profile: “Aquarians are born looking for ideologies to which they can stubbornly cling.”
So if I understand this correctly, Aquarians cling to the ideals they have created for themselves or that have been created for them. They create idealized worlds, ideas and stories and refuse to believe that there is any difference between the world that they have created and the world outside.
This got me thinking – and like some strange alternative visual artist – I came up with the idea that we all are walking around with a snow globe around our heads.
Strange, isn’t it?
Snowglobes have been fascinating me for a long, long time. People are intrigued by them; people adore them, marvel at their beauty and are mesmerized by the little flakes of snow that gently waft down when they are shaken.
What is it about them that spark such interest, such adoration? What makes people tip them over? Just to see the snow gently falling?
My theories brought me back to a conclusion which entails two different ideas, and if you’ll allow me, I shall explain them to you.
Firstly, the idea that everything in a snowglobe is beautiful and idealized and perfect.
If you have a snowglobe with the Eiffel Tower on the inside, there is no indication of the rusty steel structure; one only sees the shiny, silver tower pointing to the heavens.
In the city of New York, the Bronx is nowhere to be seen, but the skyscrapers are covered in yellow lights, the city’s smog is replaced with clear water; and snow (or glitter for that matter) is softly caressing the top of the city’s skyline.
Do we love these little ornaments so much because they represent an idealized world where the bad is nowhere to be seen, and the good is lit up, shiny, glittery and beautiful?
This is half of the reason that I said that I think we walk around with snowglobes around our heads.
Throughout my life, I have created my own snowglobe-world that I carry around with me and that influences the way I see the world. My Aquarian ideologies, one can say.
I suspect I’m not the only one.
The second half of my theory rests upon the idea that we all love seeing snow falling.
Now, I don’t mean this in a literal sense (I mean, obviously), I want to go back a few paragraphs to where I asked the questions: “What makes people tip them over? Just to see the snow gently falling?”.
My theory on this is that the snow represents a sense of continuity, a sense of safety. Because we know that when it is tipped over and chaos ensues (as is often the case in life), it will eventually come down again to reveal all that is good and pretty and ideal.
No-one ever wonders whether the snow is going to continue dangling mid air – we KNOW that it will have to come down sooner or later.
For me, that is what the snowglobe around my own head represents. The idea that it’s alright if things get a little foggy and cloudy from time to time – as long as it settles down after a bit.
That, for me, in my own ideology, is the way the world works.
Except, it doesn’t, does it?
The world doesn’t always settle down after it’s been tipped over. The snow sometimes continually falls and swirls around in our headspace.
Sometimes the snowglobe tips and never comes back around again.
Invariably, this happens.
For someone like myself, an ideologist, the un-ideal world is a scary place. An out of rhythm, out of sync world. A world where perfect families tear in two, where perfect jobs became boring and mundane, where people whom you love don’t love you back.
And sometimes, it gets hard. It gets hard to understand how this world could possibly function alongside the world you have created.
It gets hard to understand that everything you have always thought to be true was a lie, everything you wanted to be true; never was.
And it’s then that your eyes are opened to how life really is, how things really work. Things are never perfect, but then again – neither are we. Things are not ideal, but they never can be, because we are not.
And it’s this – this imperfection – that, in its own way - is kind of beautiful.
There is a sense of mystery that surrounds it.
Suddenly you start seeing that what you have created is nothing compared to what is real.
And it only takes one crack in the glass for the water to start leaking.
To live a life without my ideals and ideologies. A life where disasters happen, and don’t just happen to other people, but to me. This is the conclusion I have come to.
A life where it’s alright if the snow never settles, because you can’t change it.
A life without the world inside my snowglobe. A life without the snow in my snowglobe.
And as I’m sitting here writing this, I hold up my half a glass of Merlot and toast:
To you the reader, to no ideals, to no expectations and, lastly, to smashing snowglobes.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
''So - deal with it...''
Me:
''Mr Q, the rhythm doesn't right – I sound like I am singing a different beat.''
Jeremy Quickfall:
''Yes Germandt, it's the way this song has been written. The rhythm that I am playing IS different to the rhythm you are singing. So, deal with it.''
Life can be arrhythmical. It tends to be, in fact. And as much as we try to keep up with it – we never do, because ultimately it's not the way it's supposed to be. It's not the way our life's music was written.
Sometimes life is playing an upbeat pop song and all you are capable of, or know how to sing is the blues. And sometimes it's the other way around. But altogether, I am a firm believer in the age-old saying that says: ''things happen for a reason.''
And life has a way of knowing exactly what we need and what could be potentially great for us.
So perhaps, Life, in all its infinite wisdom, knew that the best thing to throw at over-confident, arrogant and self-centred Germandt in his first year at this college, was a musical director who saw right through that and decided to break me down, piece by piece by piece.
Jeremy Quickfall (www.jeremyquickfall.blogspot.com) and I did NOT blend well from day 1, and a lot of this was of my own making. I refused to listen to advice, I refused to surrender to the process and I refused to be told that what I am doing is wrong.
I suppose this is the result of many years of praise and adoration combined with a family line of stubborn people.
Thinking back tonight on what I must've been in 1st year as a musical theatre student and what I am today as a 3rd year musical theatre student, I realise that I must've been a pain in the ass.
A BIG, FAT pain in the ass. (Perhaps I still am)
One day, in his office, Jeremy told me:
''Compared to what you have the potential to be, you are quite average.''
I never told him this, but I actually cried in my room after he had told me that.
And you would think that a hefty comment like that would make someone sit up and listen?
No.
In fact, if anything, it made me more resistant. I started disliking him altogether, disliking his classes, disliking the process, the college, basically: everything that had anything to do with singing or musical theatre, I started resenting.
But, those of you who know Jeremy, will know that: when you start fighting, Jeremy fights back even harder. When you resist, he pushes harder.
And he did.
He fought back and refused to let me rest on my laurels.
And, looking back on it today, I am so grateful that he didn't stop.
The great thing about Jeremy is that he believes in students, and this is evident in the progress my entire class has made from our first singing class to today's lunch-time concert for the Musical Theatre Department.
Once a year, every student entering a Trinity Musical Theatre Exam gets to ''show-off'' one of their songs to the rest of the college in a lunchtime concert format. It is probably the most prestigious concert for any musical theatre student in the year and therefore we all dress up, look our best, put our best foot forward and, accompanied by Jeremy on the piano, we show them what we've got.
This year was no different.
We showed them what we had.
I physically cried for almost every song in this concert, because they were all tearjerkers and all sung extremely beautifully.
''Don't cry for me, Argentina...'' sung by Kelly, gave me goosebumps, Shelani's ''I'd give my life for you...'' sent tears to my eyes.
Then there was Tarryn with ''Who wants to live forever?'' and Chloe with ''See, I'm smiling'', Robyn with ''There are no mistakes...'', Grace with ''Mama, who bore me...'', Emma with ''A fine, fine line...'' – all extremely emotional moments for me, not only as a performer and a member of the class, but also as a friend.
Listening to other people interpret songs so beautifully makes you forget about yourself and your own song, your own voice and your own perfromance.
Suddenly, you see the bigger picture – and you start seeing that first glimmer of the final product that we have been working so hard towards.
When my song came up, I was, unexpectedly, quite nervous.
''Along the way'' from Edges, is one of the most beautiful songs in musical theatre – and for once I felt incapable of singing this song and doing justice to it.
I walked onto the stage with very little confidence and this showed when I started singing an octave too low. A mistake I would usually never make.
And then, as if time had stood still, I suddenly started getting flashbacks of how Jeremy made me sing songs over and over in my tutorials – made me do less and less, made me sound less and less ''interesting'' – and, when the flashbacks were done, I knew what I had to do.
I finished the song – they applauded – and I walked off the stage, feeling strange. I felt as if I had been let in on a secret for the first time that everyone else had known for such a long time.
Just trust what Jeremy has taught you.
The result of this, was a performance that people really enjoyed. I even had a couple of people come up to me and tell me that they didn't know that I could act like that.
To be honest, neither did I.
For fear of sounding like a sycophant, I would like to dedicate this blog to Jeremy Quickfall tonight.
A man who has never given up on me, always pushed me to be better than I am and always saw through me when I faked it or tried to pretend that I was feeling anything.
You truly are a great man, an extraordinary teacher (albeit unconventional) and, it seems, an inspiring mentor.
I am sorry for not trusting you earlier in my journey. Watching the other people in my class today, I realised that I had missed out on so much.
And, by no means do I think I have reached my destination. I know there is still a long way to go – but thank you for how far we have come.
So - - -when it seems like you are out of rhythm with life, when things feel unnatural, strange and unusual, take Jeremy's advice: ''deal with it''.
Because, inevitably, it's in the moments when we feel like things are crashing down around us that we learn the most. That we grow the most.
Life knows exactly what we need and at what time we need it. So: ''deal with it.''
And who knows, perhaps this rhythm can yield something extraordinary.
Well, in my case, I certainly hope so.
''Mr Q, the rhythm doesn't right – I sound like I am singing a different beat.''
Jeremy Quickfall:
''Yes Germandt, it's the way this song has been written. The rhythm that I am playing IS different to the rhythm you are singing. So, deal with it.''
Life can be arrhythmical. It tends to be, in fact. And as much as we try to keep up with it – we never do, because ultimately it's not the way it's supposed to be. It's not the way our life's music was written.
Sometimes life is playing an upbeat pop song and all you are capable of, or know how to sing is the blues. And sometimes it's the other way around. But altogether, I am a firm believer in the age-old saying that says: ''things happen for a reason.''
And life has a way of knowing exactly what we need and what could be potentially great for us.
So perhaps, Life, in all its infinite wisdom, knew that the best thing to throw at over-confident, arrogant and self-centred Germandt in his first year at this college, was a musical director who saw right through that and decided to break me down, piece by piece by piece.
Jeremy Quickfall (www.jeremyquickfall.blogspot.com) and I did NOT blend well from day 1, and a lot of this was of my own making. I refused to listen to advice, I refused to surrender to the process and I refused to be told that what I am doing is wrong.
I suppose this is the result of many years of praise and adoration combined with a family line of stubborn people.
Thinking back tonight on what I must've been in 1st year as a musical theatre student and what I am today as a 3rd year musical theatre student, I realise that I must've been a pain in the ass.
A BIG, FAT pain in the ass. (Perhaps I still am)
One day, in his office, Jeremy told me:
''Compared to what you have the potential to be, you are quite average.''
I never told him this, but I actually cried in my room after he had told me that.
And you would think that a hefty comment like that would make someone sit up and listen?
No.
In fact, if anything, it made me more resistant. I started disliking him altogether, disliking his classes, disliking the process, the college, basically: everything that had anything to do with singing or musical theatre, I started resenting.
But, those of you who know Jeremy, will know that: when you start fighting, Jeremy fights back even harder. When you resist, he pushes harder.
And he did.
He fought back and refused to let me rest on my laurels.
And, looking back on it today, I am so grateful that he didn't stop.
The great thing about Jeremy is that he believes in students, and this is evident in the progress my entire class has made from our first singing class to today's lunch-time concert for the Musical Theatre Department.
Once a year, every student entering a Trinity Musical Theatre Exam gets to ''show-off'' one of their songs to the rest of the college in a lunchtime concert format. It is probably the most prestigious concert for any musical theatre student in the year and therefore we all dress up, look our best, put our best foot forward and, accompanied by Jeremy on the piano, we show them what we've got.
This year was no different.
We showed them what we had.
I physically cried for almost every song in this concert, because they were all tearjerkers and all sung extremely beautifully.
''Don't cry for me, Argentina...'' sung by Kelly, gave me goosebumps, Shelani's ''I'd give my life for you...'' sent tears to my eyes.
Then there was Tarryn with ''Who wants to live forever?'' and Chloe with ''See, I'm smiling'', Robyn with ''There are no mistakes...'', Grace with ''Mama, who bore me...'', Emma with ''A fine, fine line...'' – all extremely emotional moments for me, not only as a performer and a member of the class, but also as a friend.
Listening to other people interpret songs so beautifully makes you forget about yourself and your own song, your own voice and your own perfromance.
Suddenly, you see the bigger picture – and you start seeing that first glimmer of the final product that we have been working so hard towards.
When my song came up, I was, unexpectedly, quite nervous.
''Along the way'' from Edges, is one of the most beautiful songs in musical theatre – and for once I felt incapable of singing this song and doing justice to it.
I walked onto the stage with very little confidence and this showed when I started singing an octave too low. A mistake I would usually never make.
And then, as if time had stood still, I suddenly started getting flashbacks of how Jeremy made me sing songs over and over in my tutorials – made me do less and less, made me sound less and less ''interesting'' – and, when the flashbacks were done, I knew what I had to do.
I finished the song – they applauded – and I walked off the stage, feeling strange. I felt as if I had been let in on a secret for the first time that everyone else had known for such a long time.
Just trust what Jeremy has taught you.
The result of this, was a performance that people really enjoyed. I even had a couple of people come up to me and tell me that they didn't know that I could act like that.
To be honest, neither did I.
For fear of sounding like a sycophant, I would like to dedicate this blog to Jeremy Quickfall tonight.
A man who has never given up on me, always pushed me to be better than I am and always saw through me when I faked it or tried to pretend that I was feeling anything.
You truly are a great man, an extraordinary teacher (albeit unconventional) and, it seems, an inspiring mentor.
I am sorry for not trusting you earlier in my journey. Watching the other people in my class today, I realised that I had missed out on so much.
And, by no means do I think I have reached my destination. I know there is still a long way to go – but thank you for how far we have come.
So - - -when it seems like you are out of rhythm with life, when things feel unnatural, strange and unusual, take Jeremy's advice: ''deal with it''.
Because, inevitably, it's in the moments when we feel like things are crashing down around us that we learn the most. That we grow the most.
Life knows exactly what we need and at what time we need it. So: ''deal with it.''
And who knows, perhaps this rhythm can yield something extraordinary.
Well, in my case, I certainly hope so.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
A great day for failure...
I have fulfilled many roles in my life – I believe that life is essentially about fulfilling roles. And no, when I say this I am definitely not referring to roles in plays. I literally mean I have been son, brother, friend, sales person, student, babysitter, helper, manager and so many more. But this week I added a new one to my repertoire.
A couple of days ago I just had one of the worst days of my life – I felt emotional, moody, teary, angry and frustrated for the entire day. I had to give a performance in one of our classes – one I didn’t feel I was prepared for. It was an extract from the play “Decadence” by Stephen Berkoff and one that I felt was quite a challenge for me to do. A challenge that I wasn’t really ready to face.
It had just so happened that Paul Griffiths (my drama lecturer) had put my name down the previous week to do a performance - and this whole notion of going onto stage again after a very long time was scary.
I had not physically acted on stage again after the whole “Hello & Goodbye” debacle and going back to that “scary” place was like sending me to the stocks.
Anyway, earlier that morning, after I had literally broken down and felt like giving up everything, Natasha, friend extraordinaire, comforted me and told me to “stop fearing failure”. According to her I was “so scared of failing that I was resisting trying”, and I must say that in retrospect one does have to see the merit in her argument.
I had stopped performing for quite a long time because I was scared that it wouldn’t meet certain expectations and that it would be seen as mediocre.
This to me was quite a revelation within myself.
According to another (gypsy) friend of mine, my Indian Medicine Card Animal was the fearful Rabbit. When I read up on it, I found out that the Indians called Rabbit “the fear-caller”. This meant that Rabbit was so scared of what ‘might’ happen that it ended up “calling” that to him.
In a way, I understood what that meant. It meant ‘what you fear most you will become’ or ‘what you fear most will eventually happen’ – because I have given this fear so much power by thinking about it over and over.
But – before we sidetrack – back to the story. So I did the performance and miraculously it was a success. I had some great feedback: some calling it effortless, others saying it was so nice to see me putting my own spin on a piece.
The nicest comment, however, was that of a first year boy at my college, who said: “Germandt I look up to you as a performer and an actor.” And afterwards told me that he “aspires to be like me”.
This was enough to make me teary-eyed in class all over again.
Later that day I went to lunch with Natasha and we chatted about what had happened that day in class. I told her how happy I was that it went well and how touched I was that this first-year boy had said this about me.
Natasha kept quiet for a while and then turned to me and said: “Germ, can I tell you something as a friend.?”
“Sure.” I replied.
“You have got a huge responsibility on your shoulders now.” she said.
“I know…” I interrupted. “I have to make sure that I stay working hard so that I can keep on being a performer to look up to…”
“No.” she stopped me. “You have to make sure that you show this guy that it’s alright to try and fail sometimes. You have to show him that it’s needed as a performer and as a human being – to sometimes fail.”
And I stayed quiet.
Afterwards, I realized how true her words had actually been.
This made me realize that being a rolemodel, someone that others look up to, meant that it was my responsibility to show others that it’s alright to not get it right sometimes…
that it’s alright to sometimes fail.
I started to think about all the people I looked up to in my life and started realizing more and more that I had learnt so much from all these people about life – not by how much they had gotten right, but by how much they had gotten wrong and how they came out on the other side.
And suddenly the responsibility on my shoulders became a lot heavier.
I had to make sure that those who looked up to me saw me as “a human”.
And yes, sometimes it’s hard – sometimes, you want to only show the good, clean side of who you are – but it doesn’t work that way.
“Hou die blink kant bo” – perhaps this saying accounts for a whole lot of the problems Afrikaners face today.
A sermon that I heard once said the following and it really impacted my life: “The thing with going through the valley of the shadow of death is this – it’s a valley – which means you have to go through it at some point. And it’s this that counts – whether you come out a stronger human being than you went in.”
So, my message to you today is this: if there is someone looking up to you, (a little brother or sister, a friend, a child) make sure that you show them that one does not always have to be perfect – that we learn more from the mistakes we make. That it is alright to sometimes make mistakes and learn from them.
We live in a world where our rolemodels are actors, pop stars, musicians and socialites – all of which lead perfect lives – lots of money, successful careers, fame and admiration.
I personally think it’s time for some “real” rolemodels in this world.
“Real” people. People who fail. People who fall and get up again. Humans.
I’d like to dedicate this blog to my rolemodel: Natasha.
You haven’t disappointed me yet.
A couple of days ago I just had one of the worst days of my life – I felt emotional, moody, teary, angry and frustrated for the entire day. I had to give a performance in one of our classes – one I didn’t feel I was prepared for. It was an extract from the play “Decadence” by Stephen Berkoff and one that I felt was quite a challenge for me to do. A challenge that I wasn’t really ready to face.
It had just so happened that Paul Griffiths (my drama lecturer) had put my name down the previous week to do a performance - and this whole notion of going onto stage again after a very long time was scary.
I had not physically acted on stage again after the whole “Hello & Goodbye” debacle and going back to that “scary” place was like sending me to the stocks.
Anyway, earlier that morning, after I had literally broken down and felt like giving up everything, Natasha, friend extraordinaire, comforted me and told me to “stop fearing failure”. According to her I was “so scared of failing that I was resisting trying”, and I must say that in retrospect one does have to see the merit in her argument.
I had stopped performing for quite a long time because I was scared that it wouldn’t meet certain expectations and that it would be seen as mediocre.
This to me was quite a revelation within myself.
According to another (gypsy) friend of mine, my Indian Medicine Card Animal was the fearful Rabbit. When I read up on it, I found out that the Indians called Rabbit “the fear-caller”. This meant that Rabbit was so scared of what ‘might’ happen that it ended up “calling” that to him.
In a way, I understood what that meant. It meant ‘what you fear most you will become’ or ‘what you fear most will eventually happen’ – because I have given this fear so much power by thinking about it over and over.
But – before we sidetrack – back to the story. So I did the performance and miraculously it was a success. I had some great feedback: some calling it effortless, others saying it was so nice to see me putting my own spin on a piece.
The nicest comment, however, was that of a first year boy at my college, who said: “Germandt I look up to you as a performer and an actor.” And afterwards told me that he “aspires to be like me”.
This was enough to make me teary-eyed in class all over again.
Later that day I went to lunch with Natasha and we chatted about what had happened that day in class. I told her how happy I was that it went well and how touched I was that this first-year boy had said this about me.
Natasha kept quiet for a while and then turned to me and said: “Germ, can I tell you something as a friend.?”
“Sure.” I replied.
“You have got a huge responsibility on your shoulders now.” she said.
“I know…” I interrupted. “I have to make sure that I stay working hard so that I can keep on being a performer to look up to…”
“No.” she stopped me. “You have to make sure that you show this guy that it’s alright to try and fail sometimes. You have to show him that it’s needed as a performer and as a human being – to sometimes fail.”
And I stayed quiet.
Afterwards, I realized how true her words had actually been.
This made me realize that being a rolemodel, someone that others look up to, meant that it was my responsibility to show others that it’s alright to not get it right sometimes…
that it’s alright to sometimes fail.
I started to think about all the people I looked up to in my life and started realizing more and more that I had learnt so much from all these people about life – not by how much they had gotten right, but by how much they had gotten wrong and how they came out on the other side.
And suddenly the responsibility on my shoulders became a lot heavier.
I had to make sure that those who looked up to me saw me as “a human”.
And yes, sometimes it’s hard – sometimes, you want to only show the good, clean side of who you are – but it doesn’t work that way.
“Hou die blink kant bo” – perhaps this saying accounts for a whole lot of the problems Afrikaners face today.
A sermon that I heard once said the following and it really impacted my life: “The thing with going through the valley of the shadow of death is this – it’s a valley – which means you have to go through it at some point. And it’s this that counts – whether you come out a stronger human being than you went in.”
So, my message to you today is this: if there is someone looking up to you, (a little brother or sister, a friend, a child) make sure that you show them that one does not always have to be perfect – that we learn more from the mistakes we make. That it is alright to sometimes make mistakes and learn from them.
We live in a world where our rolemodels are actors, pop stars, musicians and socialites – all of which lead perfect lives – lots of money, successful careers, fame and admiration.
I personally think it’s time for some “real” rolemodels in this world.
“Real” people. People who fail. People who fall and get up again. Humans.
I’d like to dedicate this blog to my rolemodel: Natasha.
You haven’t disappointed me yet.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Who teaches who?
For most people, Saturdays are about relaxing, spending the day at home or shopping or going out. To these people I'd like to say: I hate you.
Saturdays at the Waterfront Theatre School are marked by kids screaming, Hannah Montana booming out of speakers and little children (young enough to be in diapers) doing tap-step, shuffle ball-change, ball-change, step, stamp. For those of you who think that this is remotely enjoyable: it's not.
For one day in a week, we become Sea Point's prime day-creche and get subjected to attitudes and teenage hormones like no-one has ever experienced before. I sometimes also get the feeling that we have a contract with the Juvenile Delinquents Club of South Africa - we train their kids in drama and dance and they promise to dose them high enough just so that they don't kill us.
Personally, I have always liked kids - I was a very important part of raising my little brother and sister - but on a Saturday, the last thing I want to hear is: "Dude, you have to put me into a group with the girls - they are super-fine!"
Or: "Ah, man! I got so trashed last night!"
Both comments I have heard from a 14 year old student of mine. Shocking, isn't it?
But, as annoying as it is to try and get a class full of apathetic teenagers to commit to any exercise or activity they are given, it has it's rewards.
There are days that I want to kill them with a steak knife and then there are days that I prefer a butter knife - but regardless of these encounters: I guess it's safe to say that I love teaching.
Someone once told me: "Remember, teaching is not about lecturing, it's about guiding."
And I remember thinking at the time: ya, right!
But, more and more I am seeing this in my lessons. Which begs the question: who is teaching who?
My class (the class that I teach) is made up of 20-odd teenagers ranging between 14-16 year olds and constantly trying to find oout who and what they are, where they belong, how they fit in and why life is the way it is...
There is always one clown trying (and often succeeding) in getting everyone else to muck about as well. And it's these kids that drive me over the edge.
But, I haven't fallen yet.
In fact, what I have learned is that I teach my students a lot more than drama - I teach basic life skills. Teamwork, acceptance, apologising, fair play. These are things that they still struggle with - in class even, and it's in this that I find most of my work-satisfaction. Not in the drama teaching.
"The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires." William Arthur Ward
These words are somewhat of a haunting for me - the last thing I want to be is a mediocre teacher, and yet, it's so easy sometimes to just "tell" your students. Perhaps my greatest teacher, Paul Griffiths, has taught me so much, but I would be lying if I had to say that the majority of what I have learned from him has been drama-related.
Could I be as great a teacher as he is?
How does he do it?
Inspire: (Dictionary) To infuse into the mind; to communicate to the spirit; to convey, as by a divine or supernatural influence.
Is this what I am doing with these kids?
Am I doing the right thing with them?
These kids in my class give me a first-hand taste of what fatherhood is like - suddenly responsible for (what seems to be) someone else's life.
Like any father, you want to be sure that what you are doing is exactly what they need at that stage.
I don't always know if what I am teaching them is useful.
But then I read a quote in a magazine by James Arthur Baldwin. He said: “Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”
And I realized: how I live my life should be their inspiration.
Earlier, I said that PG taught me a lot - much of it not drama-related. But I would be lying if I said that what I have learned from him is from what he has told me rather than shown me.
Perhaps this is where the students start teaching the students - teachers are constantly reminded to be "better" human beings - because 20 pairs of eyes are watching us, because now we have to make decisions in life and in class that will be exemplary to our students... And it's in this that we start re-evaluating why and how we handle situations.
So - - - I need to "show" my students how I do things and perhaps they will be "inspired" and "imitate"?
Well, this is, perhaps, in itself an even more daunting thought.
But hey, at least now I know, I have something solid to work with...
Saturdays at the Waterfront Theatre School are marked by kids screaming, Hannah Montana booming out of speakers and little children (young enough to be in diapers) doing tap-step, shuffle ball-change, ball-change, step, stamp. For those of you who think that this is remotely enjoyable: it's not.
For one day in a week, we become Sea Point's prime day-creche and get subjected to attitudes and teenage hormones like no-one has ever experienced before. I sometimes also get the feeling that we have a contract with the Juvenile Delinquents Club of South Africa - we train their kids in drama and dance and they promise to dose them high enough just so that they don't kill us.
Personally, I have always liked kids - I was a very important part of raising my little brother and sister - but on a Saturday, the last thing I want to hear is: "Dude, you have to put me into a group with the girls - they are super-fine!"
Or: "Ah, man! I got so trashed last night!"
Both comments I have heard from a 14 year old student of mine. Shocking, isn't it?
But, as annoying as it is to try and get a class full of apathetic teenagers to commit to any exercise or activity they are given, it has it's rewards.
There are days that I want to kill them with a steak knife and then there are days that I prefer a butter knife - but regardless of these encounters: I guess it's safe to say that I love teaching.
Someone once told me: "Remember, teaching is not about lecturing, it's about guiding."
And I remember thinking at the time: ya, right!
But, more and more I am seeing this in my lessons. Which begs the question: who is teaching who?
My class (the class that I teach) is made up of 20-odd teenagers ranging between 14-16 year olds and constantly trying to find oout who and what they are, where they belong, how they fit in and why life is the way it is...
There is always one clown trying (and often succeeding) in getting everyone else to muck about as well. And it's these kids that drive me over the edge.
But, I haven't fallen yet.
In fact, what I have learned is that I teach my students a lot more than drama - I teach basic life skills. Teamwork, acceptance, apologising, fair play. These are things that they still struggle with - in class even, and it's in this that I find most of my work-satisfaction. Not in the drama teaching.
"The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires." William Arthur Ward
These words are somewhat of a haunting for me - the last thing I want to be is a mediocre teacher, and yet, it's so easy sometimes to just "tell" your students. Perhaps my greatest teacher, Paul Griffiths, has taught me so much, but I would be lying if I had to say that the majority of what I have learned from him has been drama-related.
Could I be as great a teacher as he is?
How does he do it?
Inspire: (Dictionary) To infuse into the mind; to communicate to the spirit; to convey, as by a divine or supernatural influence.
Is this what I am doing with these kids?
Am I doing the right thing with them?
These kids in my class give me a first-hand taste of what fatherhood is like - suddenly responsible for (what seems to be) someone else's life.
Like any father, you want to be sure that what you are doing is exactly what they need at that stage.
I don't always know if what I am teaching them is useful.
But then I read a quote in a magazine by James Arthur Baldwin. He said: “Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”
And I realized: how I live my life should be their inspiration.
Earlier, I said that PG taught me a lot - much of it not drama-related. But I would be lying if I said that what I have learned from him is from what he has told me rather than shown me.
Perhaps this is where the students start teaching the students - teachers are constantly reminded to be "better" human beings - because 20 pairs of eyes are watching us, because now we have to make decisions in life and in class that will be exemplary to our students... And it's in this that we start re-evaluating why and how we handle situations.
So - - - I need to "show" my students how I do things and perhaps they will be "inspired" and "imitate"?
Well, this is, perhaps, in itself an even more daunting thought.
But hey, at least now I know, I have something solid to work with...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
''It takes a moose to change a life...''
Last night I had the honour of seeing one of the most profound theatrical productions I have ever seen on a South African stage: ''Karoo Moose''. I laughed incessantly, I cried uncontrollably and I was moved and affected.
Some of my friends were unaffected – but most of the people I spoke to were stirred by this beautifully crafted production by director Lara Foot.
It was showcased using a very simple, yet effective set, simple suggestive costuming and a variety of African sounds and imagery. Some of which I am sure will stay with me for a long time to come.
I must be honest – (Rule #1 of a blog: always be honest) – I was apprehensive about seeing the show when I heard the theme and what it was exactly about.
I find South African texts and plays quite stereotypical and discriminating sometimes and I have often felt victimised when I leave a theatre space – just because I am a white Afrikaans-speaking male.
This has made me very disconnected towards many writers, directors and actors who still perform these types of productions – because how are they relevant to me today?
I am not saying at all that I don't want to hear about history or what had happened – but I think the generation that I live in now has come to a point where we are ready to move on.
And it sometimes feels to me like the arts are not yet read to step out of that box because: it works, I guess. Or maybe they are not sure if there are any stories to tell in South Africa that does not have some form of political, historical connection?
In a way – without sounding offensive - I have come to a point where I don't want to hear how bad Apartheid was for black people and how white people were all to blame. I also don't want to be faced with white guilt every time I see a sculpture or a film or a play that depicts a black person being discriminated against somewhere, somehow.
Because, it was not my fault.
I was never there, remember?
I wasn't even born yet.
And I don't think I should have to apologise.
Sometimes - and I don't think I am the only one – I feel extremely un-African. I didn't grow up in extreme poverty, my parents didn't have to struggle to be treated as equals in society, I never wear loin-cloths or goatskins and I never chant and pray to any ancestors. Is this what it means to be African? Am I not African because I speak Afrikaans and I am white?
I grew up in this land too, I have also tasted the riches of this earth, I have also walked the dusty plains of this barren soil – isn't that essentially what it means to call a country your homeland? Not how many ancestors you had living there or who was here first. Whether you are African doesn't depend on what the colour of your skin is or in which language you speak and sing – you are African if what you stand for is equality, acceptance, teamwork and a deeply rooted love for every crack and crevice this country has to offer.
Here is where I think ''Karoo Moose'' has hit the nail on the head – we have so many beautiful stories to tell, but they are not told because we focus too much on what has happened than on what is happening now.
''Karoo Moose'' tells the story of a village of people and how their lives are affected by the coming of a very strange ''wild moose'' to the village. The moose, which was supposed to be transported to a zoo – as a gift to the President – had managed to escape and is now wandering the Karoo in search of somewhere to belong. But, the story doesn't centre around the moose at all – it tells the stories of the people who have witnessed the moose's coming. Beautifully crafted stories displaying the complexities of the human spirit and our amazing ability, as Africans, to be resilient and to fight for what we believe in.
In ''Karoo Moose'', suddenly I didn't feel like a foreigner watching a South African play – I could relate to the stories, the imagery, the hurt, the brutality of life without feeling like any of it was my fault. I saw a white family living harmoniously with a black family – no victimisation, no discrimination. I saw the South Africa that I have grown up in, not the South Africa that Athol Fugard and others have created for us. Not the South Africa that was shoved in my face by older generations. And suddenly, I could relate.
I would like to thank the director, the writer and the performers for opening my eyes again to the wonderful diversity that is our country and for making me feel like an important part of that diversity.
Before last night, I used to feel like a lost white boy running aimlessly, without a home, without somewhere that I can belong in this extreme diversity that is South Africa. (a bit like the moose, I guess)
But, now, I think that that has changed.
I feel in touch, now, with every grain of soil, every mountainside rock, every drop of ocean, every African and their story.
Perhaps now... it is time to tell my own story.
Some of my friends were unaffected – but most of the people I spoke to were stirred by this beautifully crafted production by director Lara Foot.
It was showcased using a very simple, yet effective set, simple suggestive costuming and a variety of African sounds and imagery. Some of which I am sure will stay with me for a long time to come.
I must be honest – (Rule #1 of a blog: always be honest) – I was apprehensive about seeing the show when I heard the theme and what it was exactly about.
I find South African texts and plays quite stereotypical and discriminating sometimes and I have often felt victimised when I leave a theatre space – just because I am a white Afrikaans-speaking male.
This has made me very disconnected towards many writers, directors and actors who still perform these types of productions – because how are they relevant to me today?
I am not saying at all that I don't want to hear about history or what had happened – but I think the generation that I live in now has come to a point where we are ready to move on.
And it sometimes feels to me like the arts are not yet read to step out of that box because: it works, I guess. Or maybe they are not sure if there are any stories to tell in South Africa that does not have some form of political, historical connection?
In a way – without sounding offensive - I have come to a point where I don't want to hear how bad Apartheid was for black people and how white people were all to blame. I also don't want to be faced with white guilt every time I see a sculpture or a film or a play that depicts a black person being discriminated against somewhere, somehow.
Because, it was not my fault.
I was never there, remember?
I wasn't even born yet.
And I don't think I should have to apologise.
Sometimes - and I don't think I am the only one – I feel extremely un-African. I didn't grow up in extreme poverty, my parents didn't have to struggle to be treated as equals in society, I never wear loin-cloths or goatskins and I never chant and pray to any ancestors. Is this what it means to be African? Am I not African because I speak Afrikaans and I am white?
I grew up in this land too, I have also tasted the riches of this earth, I have also walked the dusty plains of this barren soil – isn't that essentially what it means to call a country your homeland? Not how many ancestors you had living there or who was here first. Whether you are African doesn't depend on what the colour of your skin is or in which language you speak and sing – you are African if what you stand for is equality, acceptance, teamwork and a deeply rooted love for every crack and crevice this country has to offer.
Here is where I think ''Karoo Moose'' has hit the nail on the head – we have so many beautiful stories to tell, but they are not told because we focus too much on what has happened than on what is happening now.
''Karoo Moose'' tells the story of a village of people and how their lives are affected by the coming of a very strange ''wild moose'' to the village. The moose, which was supposed to be transported to a zoo – as a gift to the President – had managed to escape and is now wandering the Karoo in search of somewhere to belong. But, the story doesn't centre around the moose at all – it tells the stories of the people who have witnessed the moose's coming. Beautifully crafted stories displaying the complexities of the human spirit and our amazing ability, as Africans, to be resilient and to fight for what we believe in.
In ''Karoo Moose'', suddenly I didn't feel like a foreigner watching a South African play – I could relate to the stories, the imagery, the hurt, the brutality of life without feeling like any of it was my fault. I saw a white family living harmoniously with a black family – no victimisation, no discrimination. I saw the South Africa that I have grown up in, not the South Africa that Athol Fugard and others have created for us. Not the South Africa that was shoved in my face by older generations. And suddenly, I could relate.
I would like to thank the director, the writer and the performers for opening my eyes again to the wonderful diversity that is our country and for making me feel like an important part of that diversity.
Before last night, I used to feel like a lost white boy running aimlessly, without a home, without somewhere that I can belong in this extreme diversity that is South Africa. (a bit like the moose, I guess)
But, now, I think that that has changed.
I feel in touch, now, with every grain of soil, every mountainside rock, every drop of ocean, every African and their story.
Perhaps now... it is time to tell my own story.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
''Is the juice worth the squeeze?''
Well – I am truly impressed with myself. 4th day in a row that I have written a blog post on something or the other. And I would say that the best thing I have experienced thus far has been the amazing response I've gotten from some friends and people who have read the blogs religiously on a daily basis. This response means a lot to me... It helps keep me motivated to keep doing what I'm doing.
Now, to start off today's topic: to those who don't know me all too well – I go to a drama school in Cape Town, and, stereotypically of a drama school – we have a bunch of random people (all dealing with their own insecurities, frustrations, issues and doubts in one room. The fantastic thing about our class is that we have managed to embrace that randomness and the sense of being different. And, if anything, that is what has brought us closer together – unpredictability.
Such a random person – who will not be named at this stage – in my class asked me the other day: why do some humans like pain so much? And a further discussion ensued as to why and how we allow ourself to go through some of these awful experiences again and again and again and again.
And my answer to her was: (comment if you don't agree) because pain is the only thing that reminds us that we are alive.
Now – some people (a good friend of mine in particular) seems to go back and back into a bad relationship knowing that it wasn't a good thing for them, but doing it anyway. Why?
Is it because they think that they might change him, this time? ''Maybe this time, I'll be lucky...''
Is it because we blame ourselves for the previous mishaps in the relationships? ''Actually, now when I think back, I was maybe overreacting a bit...''
Or is it because we need to have that someone close to us – so as not too feel alone? ''I'd rather be with someone – even though he sometimes hurts me – than to be alone.''
To be brutally honest – I am going to direct the next answer at this friend of mine – who I hope will be reading this: you like the pain.
And that's normal. It doesn't make you a freak.
I think what happens is that there is a sense of emotional detachment in your relationship – maybe you love him – I'm not refuting that – but, do you sometimes feel like there is something missing?
If you do, it's probably an emotional disconnection that happens in SOOOOOO many relationships – I'm talking about the type of connection that you share with a best friend or a sister. Do you have that with him? Probably not (being a guy, it's harder to feel, it's not the way we are conditioned, naturally). For a guy to feel anything takes a lot of work – has he ever told you ''I don't really know what I am feeling...'' or ''I can't explain to you you how I feel...''? These answers are probably the truth. Guys mature emotionally a lot later than girls and judging from his age – he probably is still very emotionally immature. And that's not his fault, necessarily, it's the way he was created.
But, the problem comes in when you expect him to be your emotional soulmate (which he cannot be at this stage.) So, because he cannot fulfil you emotionally (and perhaps physically, spiritually or intellectually) friction starts to happen in the relationship. Because neither of you are TRULY happy. You want something he can't give and he feels like you are expecting too much from him. (This is often why guys use the excuse '' I just need to find myself first''.)
Then you break up (for whatever reason) and suddenly, you start to feel something. Pain. Emotion. And this is essentially what you have wanted all along. To feel some sort of emotion about him. To feel alive about him.
So, then when, 2 weeks later, he wants to reconcile – subconsciously you are reminded of the intensity of what you felt he did to you. And it's this emotional intensity that is what draws you back.
Because, you know, in your deepest heart, that he will hurt you again – but you don't care – because, secretly: that's okay.
Some emotion is better than none at all, right?
So you go back into the cycle of that unfulfilled relationship – because you have now become addicted to the intensity of the emotion felt – and now you want more. So because the stakes are higher this time – the pain will be more – the emotion will be more intense.
And this I think, is why so many people date someone and then break-up again, then date him again, then break it up again.
Eventually, these couples find an equilibrium – when the guy matures emotionally and knows what he wants and they go on to have great lives together.
But, on the flip-side, I know some 30 year olds who are still maturing emotionally – is he worth the wait?
''Is the juice worth the squeeze?''
So - - - my advice to you is this: think about him, your relationship, your ups and downs – did you secretly crave the pain?
If your answer is: no, then I am obviously mistaken – and then I don't know what exactly to say to you.
But if your answer is: yes, then you need to decide if you are taking him back every time because you like pain (then you're a closet-sadist). Or is it deeper than that: is it just that the pain is ''an emotion'' and that is something that you need?
In the case of the latter: maybe find someone who satisfies you emotionally – so that you don't need the pain in order to feel alive – and then, invariably, you'll find that this other someone makes you feel whole without hurting you.
I acknowledge the fact that I am a guy and that what I have just written here might be the biggest load of bollocks, but this is what I think.
And essentially that is what a blog is all about, isn't it?
Writing down exactly what I think.
Friend, you know who you are, hope this helps... Let me know x x x
I leave you with my final quote: ''Some people like pain because it makes them feel alive, I hate it – because it reminds me that I'm human...''
Now, to start off today's topic: to those who don't know me all too well – I go to a drama school in Cape Town, and, stereotypically of a drama school – we have a bunch of random people (all dealing with their own insecurities, frustrations, issues and doubts in one room. The fantastic thing about our class is that we have managed to embrace that randomness and the sense of being different. And, if anything, that is what has brought us closer together – unpredictability.
Such a random person – who will not be named at this stage – in my class asked me the other day: why do some humans like pain so much? And a further discussion ensued as to why and how we allow ourself to go through some of these awful experiences again and again and again and again.
And my answer to her was: (comment if you don't agree) because pain is the only thing that reminds us that we are alive.
Now – some people (a good friend of mine in particular) seems to go back and back into a bad relationship knowing that it wasn't a good thing for them, but doing it anyway. Why?
Is it because they think that they might change him, this time? ''Maybe this time, I'll be lucky...''
Is it because we blame ourselves for the previous mishaps in the relationships? ''Actually, now when I think back, I was maybe overreacting a bit...''
Or is it because we need to have that someone close to us – so as not too feel alone? ''I'd rather be with someone – even though he sometimes hurts me – than to be alone.''
To be brutally honest – I am going to direct the next answer at this friend of mine – who I hope will be reading this: you like the pain.
And that's normal. It doesn't make you a freak.
I think what happens is that there is a sense of emotional detachment in your relationship – maybe you love him – I'm not refuting that – but, do you sometimes feel like there is something missing?
If you do, it's probably an emotional disconnection that happens in SOOOOOO many relationships – I'm talking about the type of connection that you share with a best friend or a sister. Do you have that with him? Probably not (being a guy, it's harder to feel, it's not the way we are conditioned, naturally). For a guy to feel anything takes a lot of work – has he ever told you ''I don't really know what I am feeling...'' or ''I can't explain to you you how I feel...''? These answers are probably the truth. Guys mature emotionally a lot later than girls and judging from his age – he probably is still very emotionally immature. And that's not his fault, necessarily, it's the way he was created.
But, the problem comes in when you expect him to be your emotional soulmate (which he cannot be at this stage.) So, because he cannot fulfil you emotionally (and perhaps physically, spiritually or intellectually) friction starts to happen in the relationship. Because neither of you are TRULY happy. You want something he can't give and he feels like you are expecting too much from him. (This is often why guys use the excuse '' I just need to find myself first''.)
Then you break up (for whatever reason) and suddenly, you start to feel something. Pain. Emotion. And this is essentially what you have wanted all along. To feel some sort of emotion about him. To feel alive about him.
So, then when, 2 weeks later, he wants to reconcile – subconsciously you are reminded of the intensity of what you felt he did to you. And it's this emotional intensity that is what draws you back.
Because, you know, in your deepest heart, that he will hurt you again – but you don't care – because, secretly: that's okay.
Some emotion is better than none at all, right?
So you go back into the cycle of that unfulfilled relationship – because you have now become addicted to the intensity of the emotion felt – and now you want more. So because the stakes are higher this time – the pain will be more – the emotion will be more intense.
And this I think, is why so many people date someone and then break-up again, then date him again, then break it up again.
Eventually, these couples find an equilibrium – when the guy matures emotionally and knows what he wants and they go on to have great lives together.
But, on the flip-side, I know some 30 year olds who are still maturing emotionally – is he worth the wait?
''Is the juice worth the squeeze?''
So - - - my advice to you is this: think about him, your relationship, your ups and downs – did you secretly crave the pain?
If your answer is: no, then I am obviously mistaken – and then I don't know what exactly to say to you.
But if your answer is: yes, then you need to decide if you are taking him back every time because you like pain (then you're a closet-sadist). Or is it deeper than that: is it just that the pain is ''an emotion'' and that is something that you need?
In the case of the latter: maybe find someone who satisfies you emotionally – so that you don't need the pain in order to feel alive – and then, invariably, you'll find that this other someone makes you feel whole without hurting you.
I acknowledge the fact that I am a guy and that what I have just written here might be the biggest load of bollocks, but this is what I think.
And essentially that is what a blog is all about, isn't it?
Writing down exactly what I think.
Friend, you know who you are, hope this helps... Let me know x x x
I leave you with my final quote: ''Some people like pain because it makes them feel alive, I hate it – because it reminds me that I'm human...''
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
"Yes - but, darling, is it art?"
So last night – I woke up at 2’o clock in the morning – completely awake and really thirsty. This could be attributed to the fact that I had just finished 2 glasses of beautiful red wine –I don’t know – what I do know is that I suddenly had the urge to write. Anything. Poetry. A novel. Anything.
So - - - now comes the great question: what to write about?
Do you delve into the deepest pits of your heart and dig up some emotional quality or experience that truly affected you? Or do you find an object in the room and just muse over it? You think I’m kidding? I’ve read poetry dedicated to armchairs, vases and a pen.
Reminder: this could also have just been the wine talking.
So luckily, I had something that had been on my brain for a while now – and I decided to write about it (buy the book one day, I’m not spoiling the fun now).
The problem for me came with deciding whether this poem that I had just written was a “good poem”…
Of course, being quite critical of myself, I was unsure – it was written in free verse (not structured), it doesn’t rhyme and I certainly have never had formal poetry coaching before.
So was it going to be an ordinary little poem or was it going to be a piece of art?
This had me thinking about exactly what “art” really is - specifically in poetry and music.
And I remembered a song that we had put in “Dance me a song” at the Masque Theatre
“Bit by bit, putting it together – piece by piece, only way to make a work of art.”
In the musical “Sunday in the park with George’’, Stephen Sondheim tackles a big question: but is it art?
What constitutes a work of art?
We are sometimes quite forward in what’s art and what’s not art – we sometimes forget to remind ourselves that it may not be art to us, but it may be art to the artist and many others.
Richard Wollheim classified the defining of what is art and what isn’t as "one of the most elusive of the traditional problems of human culture’’ – and isn’t it?
Leo Tolstoy clarified this a bit more when he said: “…art is a use of indirect means to communicate from one person to another.”
This, for me, comes a little closer.
I think I would define it like this:
“Art starts where talking stops.” – Germandt Geldenhuys
Isn’t this exactly what art should be doing? Transcending human dialogue.
So this is how I am going to measure what I call art:
1. Does it say more without saying any more?
2. Is it a universal language that can be understood by anyone from anywhere?
3. Is it a truthful expression of the artist’s soul?
This is why I love poetry so much – you can express in a few lines what people spend hours saying. Such a distilled form of expression. In Afrikaans we have a saying that goes: “’n Goeie begryper het ‘n halwe woord nodig” – roughly translated as “Those who are intellectual enough, don’t need more than a couple of words to understand something.”
And isn’t this so true?
Think back on those times when you talk to someone for hours on the phone or in person but don’t really say anything. And then think back on those times when someone only needed to say one word to affect you – whether it be positive or negative.
Then - music - my favourite.
Those who know me well enough, know that any rendition of “Send in the Clowns” sends me bawling.
Music has the ability to move us immensely: me, Emma and Natasha were actually discussing this in class today.
I think it relates to a couple of factors. One of them definitely relating to my last blog about a group of people having the same goal.
But further than that – (and correct me if I’m wrong) – I think that music is the closest we will ever come to hearing and seeing our emotions.
Think about it. I don’t know if it just happens to me – but whenever I think of a specific emotion I associate it with a piece of music I have heard somewhere.
Scientists have proven that letting babies listen to Mozart increases their IQ (intellectual quotient) and their EQ (emotional quotient). Coincidence? I think not.
So then it makes sense that music is such a universal language, doesn’t it?
Just like emotions can be understood all over the world – so can music.
And then lastly, is it a truthful expression of the artist’s soul?
Well, I think that’s for the artist to decide.
Sincere expression is the one thing that can never be faked.
So - - after much deliberation: is my little poem going to be an “ordinary poem” or a work of art?
To be honest, I’m still not sure.
But - - - - - as I said: in the end, that’s for me to decide.
So - - - now comes the great question: what to write about?
Do you delve into the deepest pits of your heart and dig up some emotional quality or experience that truly affected you? Or do you find an object in the room and just muse over it? You think I’m kidding? I’ve read poetry dedicated to armchairs, vases and a pen.
Reminder: this could also have just been the wine talking.
So luckily, I had something that had been on my brain for a while now – and I decided to write about it (buy the book one day, I’m not spoiling the fun now).
The problem for me came with deciding whether this poem that I had just written was a “good poem”…
Of course, being quite critical of myself, I was unsure – it was written in free verse (not structured), it doesn’t rhyme and I certainly have never had formal poetry coaching before.
So was it going to be an ordinary little poem or was it going to be a piece of art?
This had me thinking about exactly what “art” really is - specifically in poetry and music.
And I remembered a song that we had put in “Dance me a song” at the Masque Theatre
“Bit by bit, putting it together – piece by piece, only way to make a work of art.”
In the musical “Sunday in the park with George’’, Stephen Sondheim tackles a big question: but is it art?
What constitutes a work of art?
We are sometimes quite forward in what’s art and what’s not art – we sometimes forget to remind ourselves that it may not be art to us, but it may be art to the artist and many others.
Richard Wollheim classified the defining of what is art and what isn’t as "one of the most elusive of the traditional problems of human culture’’ – and isn’t it?
Leo Tolstoy clarified this a bit more when he said: “…art is a use of indirect means to communicate from one person to another.”
This, for me, comes a little closer.
I think I would define it like this:
“Art starts where talking stops.” – Germandt Geldenhuys
Isn’t this exactly what art should be doing? Transcending human dialogue.
So this is how I am going to measure what I call art:
1. Does it say more without saying any more?
2. Is it a universal language that can be understood by anyone from anywhere?
3. Is it a truthful expression of the artist’s soul?
This is why I love poetry so much – you can express in a few lines what people spend hours saying. Such a distilled form of expression. In Afrikaans we have a saying that goes: “’n Goeie begryper het ‘n halwe woord nodig” – roughly translated as “Those who are intellectual enough, don’t need more than a couple of words to understand something.”
And isn’t this so true?
Think back on those times when you talk to someone for hours on the phone or in person but don’t really say anything. And then think back on those times when someone only needed to say one word to affect you – whether it be positive or negative.
Then - music - my favourite.
Those who know me well enough, know that any rendition of “Send in the Clowns” sends me bawling.
Music has the ability to move us immensely: me, Emma and Natasha were actually discussing this in class today.
I think it relates to a couple of factors. One of them definitely relating to my last blog about a group of people having the same goal.
But further than that – (and correct me if I’m wrong) – I think that music is the closest we will ever come to hearing and seeing our emotions.
Think about it. I don’t know if it just happens to me – but whenever I think of a specific emotion I associate it with a piece of music I have heard somewhere.
Scientists have proven that letting babies listen to Mozart increases their IQ (intellectual quotient) and their EQ (emotional quotient). Coincidence? I think not.
So then it makes sense that music is such a universal language, doesn’t it?
Just like emotions can be understood all over the world – so can music.
And then lastly, is it a truthful expression of the artist’s soul?
Well, I think that’s for the artist to decide.
Sincere expression is the one thing that can never be faked.
So - - after much deliberation: is my little poem going to be an “ordinary poem” or a work of art?
To be honest, I’m still not sure.
But - - - - - as I said: in the end, that’s for me to decide.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Looking to the same horizon - ''again''.
This day has been rather uneventful, apart from my waking up really late - again. Missing Paul's first class - again. Not having a clue what is going in on the Prozorov family - again.
So it seems to have been a day full of endless ''agains''.
I got subpoenaed - again. I have to appear in court again on the 18th of August - yes, Tarryn, I have saved it on my phone.
One thing that I did find made my day, was the choosing of the Choral Evening's repertoire! This was exciting! Apart from the odd ''popular'' number - I was extremely happy with the choices.
My favorites being ''Lacrimosa'' and ''Company'' as well as ''For Good'' and the ''Afrikaans Medley''. Can you actually imagine how amazing our chorus is going to sound doing these? I mean, I don't mean to boast but we are quite amazing. WTS's own little Glee Club.
And all of this got me thinking about why humankind enjoys singing in unity so much? From ancient Grecian times people have been singing in unison to Dionysus and every other Greek god imaginable. And even today, people still are moved to tears by good choral singing. Emphasis here being on ''good''.
Is it because of the music that is being created? Is it the beautiful harmonies that transcend what one person's voice can do alone?
I mean, it's so easy to get bored listening to one person's voice (yes, I know) - even people who are famous and amazing are boring sometimes.
So what is it that make us sit up and listen – and I mean really listen to a chorus or choir singing?
My theory is this: audience members who are not a part of a chorus, who just listen, envy us.
And it's not because they don't have a voice (many of them do), I think it goes a lot deeper than that. It has to do with the human connection that a chorus represents. The sense of unity that happens when 20 odd people sing a tune or a harmony together.
We live in a disconnected world. A world where relationships can be formed online, where the best means of communication is a quick text message. Where face-to-face conversations are becoming more and more seldom. Where people's ideas and opinions and styles and tastes differ so much to what it was, say 100 years ago. Where communities have started to disintegrate because we are not connecting with each other. Where feeling alone in a big, big world has begun to be a part of who we have become.
And this is where a chorus or choir is different – suddenly you have a group of people all sharing one vision, all connecting with each other on a level that is much higher than most people will ever feel in their lives.
Suddenly, 20 odd people want the same thing – to sound great together. This is why it sounds awkward in a chorus when one person is louder than the others (yes, I know). It's because, in a chorus, you don't want to hear one person's voice or heart or soul – you want to get the sense of community.
And maybe the tears are a result of an audiences' longing for such a connection. Why is it that we get goosebumps and teary-eyed when an entire stadium sings ''Nkosi sikeleli Afrika''? It's because it represents our human longing for community, for people around us, for connection. ''No man is an island'' – how true.
So, I am very grateful that I can connect with 20 other people in such a way that transcends human understanding. I am very grateful to be a part of a chorus – surrounded by people who, for a couple of minutes, stand still and are looking at the same horizon as I am. It's like that song goes: ''Even though I know how very far apart we are...it helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky.'' This is exactly what it feels like to me – we can all be different (and are we!), but for those moments in that song – we are ''sleeping underneath the same big sky''.
So - singing in the chorus was the one ''again'' of my day that I didn't mind at all.
I salute you – chorus of the Waterfront Theatre School.
I feel connected to you. And may we all rise to the occasion – and look to the same horizon.
So it seems to have been a day full of endless ''agains''.
I got subpoenaed - again. I have to appear in court again on the 18th of August - yes, Tarryn, I have saved it on my phone.
One thing that I did find made my day, was the choosing of the Choral Evening's repertoire! This was exciting! Apart from the odd ''popular'' number - I was extremely happy with the choices.
My favorites being ''Lacrimosa'' and ''Company'' as well as ''For Good'' and the ''Afrikaans Medley''. Can you actually imagine how amazing our chorus is going to sound doing these? I mean, I don't mean to boast but we are quite amazing. WTS's own little Glee Club.
And all of this got me thinking about why humankind enjoys singing in unity so much? From ancient Grecian times people have been singing in unison to Dionysus and every other Greek god imaginable. And even today, people still are moved to tears by good choral singing. Emphasis here being on ''good''.
Is it because of the music that is being created? Is it the beautiful harmonies that transcend what one person's voice can do alone?
I mean, it's so easy to get bored listening to one person's voice (yes, I know) - even people who are famous and amazing are boring sometimes.
So what is it that make us sit up and listen – and I mean really listen to a chorus or choir singing?
My theory is this: audience members who are not a part of a chorus, who just listen, envy us.
And it's not because they don't have a voice (many of them do), I think it goes a lot deeper than that. It has to do with the human connection that a chorus represents. The sense of unity that happens when 20 odd people sing a tune or a harmony together.
We live in a disconnected world. A world where relationships can be formed online, where the best means of communication is a quick text message. Where face-to-face conversations are becoming more and more seldom. Where people's ideas and opinions and styles and tastes differ so much to what it was, say 100 years ago. Where communities have started to disintegrate because we are not connecting with each other. Where feeling alone in a big, big world has begun to be a part of who we have become.
And this is where a chorus or choir is different – suddenly you have a group of people all sharing one vision, all connecting with each other on a level that is much higher than most people will ever feel in their lives.
Suddenly, 20 odd people want the same thing – to sound great together. This is why it sounds awkward in a chorus when one person is louder than the others (yes, I know). It's because, in a chorus, you don't want to hear one person's voice or heart or soul – you want to get the sense of community.
And maybe the tears are a result of an audiences' longing for such a connection. Why is it that we get goosebumps and teary-eyed when an entire stadium sings ''Nkosi sikeleli Afrika''? It's because it represents our human longing for community, for people around us, for connection. ''No man is an island'' – how true.
So, I am very grateful that I can connect with 20 other people in such a way that transcends human understanding. I am very grateful to be a part of a chorus – surrounded by people who, for a couple of minutes, stand still and are looking at the same horizon as I am. It's like that song goes: ''Even though I know how very far apart we are...it helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky.'' This is exactly what it feels like to me – we can all be different (and are we!), but for those moments in that song – we are ''sleeping underneath the same big sky''.
So - singing in the chorus was the one ''again'' of my day that I didn't mind at all.
I salute you – chorus of the Waterfront Theatre School.
I feel connected to you. And may we all rise to the occasion – and look to the same horizon.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Find your Bus-Buddy. . .
Well, what can I say - it has definitely been a while since my last blog: this is largely due to the fact that I didn't really have the time or the energy to conjure up some sort of witty, exciting story.
This is rather sad - I mean, what is the point of having a blog if you never write in it?
However, I have come to a sort of understanding with myself that I need to do this more frequently - it needs to become a habit. However, I want to start writing about what I think. Which I do alot. (contrary to popular belief)
So today, I decided to write about: friends. I have recently just finished a show that I was in at the Masque Theatre in Muizenberg called "Dance me a song" and one thing that was extremely apparent to me in this show was the closeness of my class and how we have grown over the 3 years (well, 2 and a half) as a group - we were actually discussing this last night over some "Sweet Chilli Chicken with Avo and Feta Pizza" at the Brass Bell in Kalk Bay. It is so interesting to see a group of people and how they evolve with one another over a course of time, how cliques tend to change and how some people will grow closer to one another than others.
I was never really accepted by the class from day 1 - I always felt like an outsider and "some people" played on this alot - not only insulting and teasing me a lot in behind my back, but in my face as well. This is something I don't altogether regret since there is a learning curve that was achieved by this.
By second year, things started getting a little better and I developed close friendships with quite a lot of classmates, but in particular one: my soulmate Natasha. And yes, there were people in the class who frowned upon our friendship as "too close" and that we were "losing sight of who we are without each other". But, thinking back on it now, I am convinced that the people in your life who really matter and whom you really care about become like an extra limb on your body - an undisputable part of your anatomy. (I guess this is why it is so painful when they hurt you - it's like someone has broken a part of who you have become). This is exactly why I can now confidently say: I don't want to know who I am without my best friend.
Is that such a crime?
One thing that I want to make perfectly clear is that Tash is not the only one who has made this much of an impact in my life - CK, RP, TS, SES. You all know who you are - you are all appreciated beyond measure.
The one thing that I am most grateful for is that I have people on whose shoulder I can always cry on.
I was saying to Tash last night: "If I ever have children and someone asked me what I wished for them, I wouldn't say fame, fortune or even happiness for that matter. I would wish that they never have to feel alone in the world, that they would always have someone on whose back they can climb to carry them across the river."
Now, you might ask - why not "happiness"?
This is because of my firm belief that even our unhappy moments shape us into the people we become. Like Fynbos that needs to be burned down once every few years - it needs the destruction. Because without destruction nothing new can be created. And without change there can be no progress.
But, back to friends - I am extremely lucky and blessed to be surrounded by people who genuinely care about me and who genuinely love me for me. I know it's such a cliche, but you have not lived until you have found that one person with whom you can be yourself all the time and they are completely okay with that.
My friends share my joys, my fears, my happy moments, my sad moments and the moments when it feels like life is getting the better of me.
Ariel Dorfman, world-renowned writer, activist and public speaker recently spoke at the Annual Nelson Mandela Lecture at the University of the Witwatersrand. He said in his speech that a scientific study recently conducted found that babies kept in a hospital around other babies cried a lot more when they heard the cry of other babies - but when they recorded the baby's own cry and played it back to him/her - he stopped crying shortly afterwards. The scientists concluded that humans are born with a natural sense of compassion for other human beings and are more likely to share in the sadness of others than revel in their own.
Makes you think, doesn't it?
So, to conclude, I'd like to thank all my friends - who have stood by me through everything - all the hardships and the heartaches and even though most of you didn't like me at first - "It's not where you start, it's where you finish..." Not that I'm implying at all that I am finished with you - I love you all too much.
So my advice to those of you who haven't found that special someone: - like Oprah Winfrey said: "Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, but what you want is someone who would take the bus with you when the limo breaks down."
Find your bus-buddy. It's so worth it.
P.S Natasha - this is for you. I love you beyond measure.
"There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a seperate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul" - Edith Wharton
This is rather sad - I mean, what is the point of having a blog if you never write in it?
However, I have come to a sort of understanding with myself that I need to do this more frequently - it needs to become a habit. However, I want to start writing about what I think. Which I do alot. (contrary to popular belief)
So today, I decided to write about: friends. I have recently just finished a show that I was in at the Masque Theatre in Muizenberg called "Dance me a song" and one thing that was extremely apparent to me in this show was the closeness of my class and how we have grown over the 3 years (well, 2 and a half) as a group - we were actually discussing this last night over some "Sweet Chilli Chicken with Avo and Feta Pizza" at the Brass Bell in Kalk Bay. It is so interesting to see a group of people and how they evolve with one another over a course of time, how cliques tend to change and how some people will grow closer to one another than others.
I was never really accepted by the class from day 1 - I always felt like an outsider and "some people" played on this alot - not only insulting and teasing me a lot in behind my back, but in my face as well. This is something I don't altogether regret since there is a learning curve that was achieved by this.
By second year, things started getting a little better and I developed close friendships with quite a lot of classmates, but in particular one: my soulmate Natasha. And yes, there were people in the class who frowned upon our friendship as "too close" and that we were "losing sight of who we are without each other". But, thinking back on it now, I am convinced that the people in your life who really matter and whom you really care about become like an extra limb on your body - an undisputable part of your anatomy. (I guess this is why it is so painful when they hurt you - it's like someone has broken a part of who you have become). This is exactly why I can now confidently say: I don't want to know who I am without my best friend.
Is that such a crime?
One thing that I want to make perfectly clear is that Tash is not the only one who has made this much of an impact in my life - CK, RP, TS, SES. You all know who you are - you are all appreciated beyond measure.
The one thing that I am most grateful for is that I have people on whose shoulder I can always cry on.
I was saying to Tash last night: "If I ever have children and someone asked me what I wished for them, I wouldn't say fame, fortune or even happiness for that matter. I would wish that they never have to feel alone in the world, that they would always have someone on whose back they can climb to carry them across the river."
Now, you might ask - why not "happiness"?
This is because of my firm belief that even our unhappy moments shape us into the people we become. Like Fynbos that needs to be burned down once every few years - it needs the destruction. Because without destruction nothing new can be created. And without change there can be no progress.
But, back to friends - I am extremely lucky and blessed to be surrounded by people who genuinely care about me and who genuinely love me for me. I know it's such a cliche, but you have not lived until you have found that one person with whom you can be yourself all the time and they are completely okay with that.
My friends share my joys, my fears, my happy moments, my sad moments and the moments when it feels like life is getting the better of me.
Ariel Dorfman, world-renowned writer, activist and public speaker recently spoke at the Annual Nelson Mandela Lecture at the University of the Witwatersrand. He said in his speech that a scientific study recently conducted found that babies kept in a hospital around other babies cried a lot more when they heard the cry of other babies - but when they recorded the baby's own cry and played it back to him/her - he stopped crying shortly afterwards. The scientists concluded that humans are born with a natural sense of compassion for other human beings and are more likely to share in the sadness of others than revel in their own.
Makes you think, doesn't it?
So, to conclude, I'd like to thank all my friends - who have stood by me through everything - all the hardships and the heartaches and even though most of you didn't like me at first - "It's not where you start, it's where you finish..." Not that I'm implying at all that I am finished with you - I love you all too much.
So my advice to those of you who haven't found that special someone: - like Oprah Winfrey said: "Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, but what you want is someone who would take the bus with you when the limo breaks down."
Find your bus-buddy. It's so worth it.
P.S Natasha - this is for you. I love you beyond measure.
"There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a seperate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul" - Edith Wharton
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