IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPRINGS I SAW is an exploration the of stories of people who live in the Art Deco buildings of Springs. It is the imagined lives of those who live in a space which is not theirs historically but one which they have reclaimed. This work, in times of doom and complaint, creates a new narrative; one of revival, vigour and celebration.

Art is anything that you can get away with …

Take some chocolate and take 2 pieces of bread, and then put the chocolate in the middle of the bread and you make a sandwich.

That’s a cake.

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Where are we going to?

Springs, the town on the East Rand.

Do you mean the season?

Ah, the season, Springs, it is a seasonal town.

The town, yes I do know it. I have been there, but it was a long while ago, an old gold mining town isn’t it.

A dead town.

No, Springs is growth, new growth, but in Springs it is now autumn.

It is a nothing space, a dead space, a dirty space.

There is a lot of trash in it, but look past the garbage at the Art Deco buildings, one of the best western architectural styles.

Decorations decorate.

Art Deco, the birth of a flower; it was a movement of ideas, an architecture of buds; curls, swirls and new born petals?

Springs, it is a cemetery.

That’s autumn, everything is dying.

It is a cemetery this town, yet it is a distorted cemetery for the graves are filled with life.

The buildings are tombs, structures that house the dead. Watch the dead people, watch them move and dance. They are the waking dead, the walking dead.

Ah, a dead man coming out of a tomb is the best master of life for he knows its value.

The window panes are dirty, dust; the metal work does not shine.

Look, all the buildings face the sun, blue and red window panes turn towards the sun. There is value in a ray of light; it is the value of warmth.

There is a beauty in these buildings; illusion, existence and status; they all go together, they are not there, yet they exist and live again.

It’s a hell hole.

Things will always grow up again; the seeds of the dead are planted in Springs.

The people; Somalis, Ethiopians, and Nigerians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis, they are the seeds now, their histories; their movement defines this space, they are the flowers that flourish. The Greek, the Portuguese, the Jew, the Italian, they walk the streets, they have no home here anymore, they make but a stain on a wall, indelible, their souls are here now.

Springs is an immigrant town.

It has always been an immigrant town.

We are afraid.

Of whom?

The dirt, it is dirty now.

Of what?

The ghosts, they are everywhere.

Who knew the beauty of the Art Deco architecture?

This is a dead town. It’s a ghost town.

Springs; this place is like somebody’s memory of a town.

And the memory is fading.

Ghosts are not real.

We are all ghosts.

Ghosts have no memory.

We have no memory.

We will remember through the spaces that are lived in.

What are we waiting for?

For it to be too late.

SMELL THE FLOWERS WHILE YOU CAN

The young man wears a light green T-shirt on which is a picture of Bob Marley; the words underneath this Reggae star are ‘No Woman No Cry.’ The T-shirt was once a dark olive green, now it is faded to light. Bob Marley is a light brown; his Jamaican darkness is washed out. The young man has a gold tooth, the front right tooth, and dreadlocks that hang onto his shoulders; they are cleanly soiled, he has spent time creating this look. He does not smile, he may not have a woman, no wife or mother, no girlfriend or sister, but just once he did smile, when he heard the red-winged starling that sat on the light pole that is on the pavement corner and that had no bulb in it, sing; it whistled, the sound is long and drawn out, spreeeooo, and his tooth flashed for he stands in the sunlight. He points towards the street. He says ‘Wait here I will telephone Dennis for you.’

Three men stand at the entrance of a general store, two of them chew, four jaws move up and then they move down, and the third man has a round wad, a ball of something, that seems to be caught in the side of his mouth, he might have tooth ache, or he is eating something that he has not swallowed. In the store on the shelves are chocolates and biscuits and a few potatoes. They all are covered lightly with dust. At the back of the shop four yellow plastic chairs are set around a low metal table, and on the table is a pair of dice, several packets of small green leaves and an empty espresso coffee cup. Above the table a flag hangs from a wooden beam that has been hammered into the dry-walled ceiling, it is light blue, the blue of the Indian Ocean and in the centre is a single five-point white star, the star of unity, this is the Somali flag. All the men are young; they have light brown skin, dark eyes with small pin-prick black pupils, their noses are curved. One of the men, the one who is not chewing, says ‘stand at the corner, there, that corner, I will phone Dennis and he will meet you here.’

The inside of the room is cool; there are two fans in it, air blows softly from the left and from the right; the breeze makes the sign of a cross. At the back of the room a cross hangs on the wall, Jesus stares down from it as if at an intruder, his wounds bleed and gasp. On the left an older man in a black suit stands in front of a picture, it is a picture of him, he has greying hair and a small greying beard, in this picture he looks majestic, Godlike, better than he does as he stands in this cool room, for now he has the smell of old brandy mixed with sheep fat and his eyes are rimmed in red. On the picture are letters, red letters, red capital letters, TCI MINISTRIES, underneath this are words in black, Take Courage Ministries, and below this it says ‘Welcome to the House of your Father’.  A red-winged starling flies across the room, the pink red under its wings flash, and then it flies out again, bird sounds come from a hole in the top right hand wall. The man says ‘Welcome, come inside, this is a Christian place, welcome to the house of our Father, it is not safe outside, you can stand here, I will phone Dennis and he will come. He is the only one who can say whether you can go inside the building or not.’

A man walks out of the general dealer shop where the three men who look as if they are Somali are, he walks across the street. He wears a red T-shirt and blue jeans, his Nike boots are scratched and dusty. In an accent that seems French he says ‘follow me, those guys over there they will phone Dennis, I have lost my phone and so I don’t have his number. But I know those guys, they will phone him.’

Outside the bar, on the wall, is a painted picture of a green and white beer bottle, the words on it are Castle Lite, and above the bottle on a red background in blue capital letters are the words TOP CLUB. Inside the bar there is a snooker table, the green baize is worn in one of the corners, the wood of the table is brown and stained, on the corners many glasses of red wine have been spilled and the netting of two of the pockets is faded and enflamed, crimson and bloodshot. Two balls, a red ball and a blue ball, lie on a nearby table; they have fallen from the broken pocket and been placed there so that they will not get damaged. A black and white dog of no particular breed runs beneath the table, as it does so it kicks at an empty green beer tin which slowly rolls towards the outside door and on towards the pavement, then it rolls into the open drain and disappears. The dog lies down close to the feet of a man; it picks up in its mouth what is left of a chicken bone, then it snaps the bone in two and swallows it, it is gone, it then licks the remains of the gravy and peas that are left in a Styrofoam container. Four men stand around the snooker table, three of them hold snooker cues, one leans down over the table and holds the blue white tip of the cue to a white ball, another holds a cigarette to his mouth and then, slowly, laconically, blows four smoke rings into the air, the third drinks from a beer bottle, seven gulps, and the fourth speaks into a mobile phone. The man with the phone stops speaking into it; he turns around and says ‘Dennis, he will meet you there, down there at the corner.’ The ball can’t fall to ground; this is a very important rule.

The building is Doreen Court, it is painted brown; next door to it is another building; it is made from face brick. The curved balconies of Doreen Court do not stand out, they are not painted another different colour, they fade into the building itself, it is only on a closer look that they are noticeably curved, and, on another closer look, that once they may have been painted an uncommon much lighter colour, food trays emerging from a brick wall. The balconies are now functional rather than decorative, once they were pink and turquoise, now they are brown set against brown, the garbage that piles up on them is rotting. The two wooden front doors to the building are closed; in front of them are locked iron gates, padlocked, the bars are shaped like mermaids, they cannot speak and say what they hold inside them. In the shop on the left hand side of the doors is a sign, it says Christ Kingdom Ministries, but it seems, although the doors are open, that there is no-one there. The shop to the right is closed; the iron gates are also padlocked and evenly browned with dust, the doors have not been opened in a long while. Now there is movement behind the metal gates of the front door, and movement on a balcony, a rat has made its home here, a cat, or is it a person, hidden behind the façade of decoration that is no longer decoration? People shapes pass by the closed and broken panes of glass, a wisp of smoke emerges from an open window, there are cooking smells, meat, and then, quickly, a young girl dressed in sheer stockings and a red and black brassiere steps out and watches the street from one of the balconies, she waves. A red winged starling, the aging grey of the feathers on its head, sits on the plaster of the balustrade and whistles, it sings to the unclouded sky.

No you cannot go inside the building, no, why, because I say that you cannot, there is a problem with the owner, he does not like it that strangers go inside and I am the caretaker, and I say you cannot go. No, you cannot go inside, I have said this. There is a dispute of ownership with this building so maybe if you come back next time, yes I recognise you from when you were here before, you were walking down this street, and 3^rd street, maybe in three months then the dispute will be finished, the owner will then have no problem with you coming inside, but now no, not now, not today.

Dennis is very dark. He wears a T-shirt that has had the sleeves cut off; it is very white against his very black skin. His biceps have a life of their own when he lifts his arms and reaches upwards to something, what, and then he walks down the pavement. He stops to ask something of someone, a cigarette, then he lights the cigarette that he is given with a golden lighter, a silver platinum bracelet reflects the shadowy word Cartier that is written in the base of the lighter, the flame hisses as he flicks it open, then it is gone, he walks forward, one foot before the other. His shoes are made of brown patent leather, newly polished, burnished, and yet the street is dusty and blackened pieces of paper scud across it in the wind. Dennis is tall, very tall; he is at least six feet tall, and because he stands so upright he appears taller. His head is shaven, there is no stubble on it, and his face is bearded, it is thick, lush, his full red lips smile, a threat, laughter, threatening laughter. He looks down, at everyone, everyone who walks, or stands, for Dennis is very tall.

What does it mean that there is a dispute of ownership?

Ha, do you want to know this, really? I am telling you that there is a dispute and that I am now the owner of the building, there is a problem with the last owner. Look at it, this building, it is dark, dark inside too, and it is falling down, water is running down the walls and there are children inside, they need to have light. Maybe six months ago the city council cut off all the power and the water, there were a lot of people living here and the man, the owner did not care, he just took their money and did not pay for the electricity or water, so it was cut, then they had nothing, it smelled for there are many people here. You can imagine the smell no, and there were rats running about, someone said that a rat nearly killed a baby that was lying on a bed, ate it for the rat was big and the baby was small. Someone told me, I live not far from here, in that other building, yes you have come from there, Coalition House, it is better, the man that owns it cares about the tenants, like me, and the water has not been cut.

Many families live there, no not mine, I have no family and my mother, she is dead, she died before I came here, she was killed by a car. As she was walking down the street a car came driving very fast, she was trying to cross the street and the car did not slow down, it knocked her and she died, not then, she died later when they were taking her to the hospital but they could not help her because the ambulance was slow, too slow, there are many cars, more than in Johannesburg, often it is better to walk, you get to places much quicker, much quicker than if you drive. But that is my mother, and anyway I came here because here I can make money, a lot of it, and I do make money.

Look at my shoes, Gucci from France, they are new, imported, I buy my clothes from that shop there, there on the corner of Plantation Road and 3^rd Ave, it does not look as if it has good clothes and shoes but it does, the owner likes to have clients like me, he knows me, that I will always pay, I am one of his good clients, he makes a lot of money from me, and sometimes for me, because we do good business, sometimes I have goods that he wants and so we trade. Anyway what is it, yes, I live there, in Coalition House.

I lived for a short time in Johannesburg, in Hillbrow and got a job as a bodyguard for this guy who worked there also with buildings, he was also a kind of landlord, like I am, he taught me a lot about this business, never let the tenants get away with not paying, with nothing, if they do they think that they can take advantage of you, once they do it one time, not paying, then you must evict them, let them go, you can’t take shit from no tenants. Anyway I also worked in a club in Hillbrow, actually it was closer to Berea, it used to be a hotel and then they turned it into a night club, the whole place, even the rooms could be used by some of the people that came to the club. I was hired by the guy who was the landlord to be the bouncer and the body guard there, that is where I learnt to dress well, a bouncer must always dress well because to be well dressed scares people, and you want to make them scared so that they will not cause trouble. Then I came here, I got into a fight with the guy that I worked for there, he said that I had taken away some of his clients, but I don’t know this, how could I have done this? What clients did he have? And how could I have taken them? What did he sell, what did I sell? We did not sell the same stuff.

Where do you work? Why do you want me to tell you this stuff? No you can’t go into the building until the dispute is resolved, until I fix it with the owner. Anyway the owner he did nothing and so I said to many people that I know, why don’t you all come to Doreen Court and move in. I can get the water fixed up and the electricity; there is no problem to connect it up again. And so some, not all of them, they moved in, and they pay the rent and so there is water now and electricity. No I just need to clean it, then it will be good, a good building to live in.

It is better here in Springs, there are not so many people like Hillbrow and here people they all know me, and they all respect me. I can get them things, things that they need, I know where to buy the khat, the leaves that the Somali and Ethiopian people chew, I know where to find it, I get it from the Somalian people in Johannesburg, but many are moving here now, many of them are here, and I get other stuff, it is a good business.

And yes, yes, the dispute will soon be over, I know what I have to do, then everything will be fine here in Doreen Court and you can go inside. Just come back in three month maybe.

The young man in the Rastafarian T-shirt winks and says ‘Dennis says you cannot go inside. You must not go inside.’

The Somalian man who chews khat says ‘Dennis says you cannot go inside. You must not go inside.’

The snooker player in the Top Club winks and says ‘Dennis says you cannot go inside. You must not go inside.’

The man of Christ in the TCI Ministries says ‘Dennis says you cannot go inside. You must not go inside. Jesus will look after Dennis, he is a good man.’

As Dennis walks away a red-winged starling flies low above his head, under its wings the feathers are red, obsidian, a shadow falls across his forehead, bisects it, a wound.

TO: B

FROM: A

RE: SPRINGS

Did you read of the Warhol-esque ballet performance that was put on at Renesta House? This is that green building on 3^rd street, the one which has the four shops beneath it. It is the well-kept building where, when you look at it, the eye is drawn to the orthogonal frames of the windows. The name of the building is written in bold decorative lettering just above the entrance. Apparently a similar performance was put on at the Carlyle Hotel on Ocean Drive in Miami? Did you know that Springs has the most Art Deco buildings in it after Miami? The performance was magnificent. The performer of the allegro, this is that brisk, buoyant movement, the performer leaps into the air and stretches his legs while airborne, was dressed as a bird, his wings were made of the art works, copies I suppose, what isn’t a copy of a copy of a copy, of Jean Michel Basquiat, he was the artist, Andy Warhol’s young and beautiful black project, he died of a heroin overdose at twenty, or was it twenty four? The performer had a scar running down the centre of his face so that, his face that is, was divided in two and only then was one aware that a face is not symmetrical, but anyway after the performance, he sat down on the edge of one of the balconies, the curved one on the third floor of Renestra House and cried. Did you know that allegro means happy? And do you know why he cried? I heard this, or maybe I read it in the brochure that was given out before the performance, apparently because Jean Michel Basquiat is dead and Springs is not Miami, and that Miami and Springs are both dying, for different reasons. Then he, or maybe it was a she, there was no gender to be discerned, went inside, her face was happy, and she leapt down the stairs stopping at the different stained glass windows, they’re green and yellow and red and have a Picasso-esque design, and mouthing the words ‘I am a photograph’. The stained glass windows magnified him and made him different colours depending upon where he was standing. She really was a photograph.