AzaNYa
by Joost Bosland
Kentridge Month and a treasure in America's Armpit
From my desk, I have an excellent view of the Empire State Building. Might I ever forget, one look out the window reminds me: I am in New York City, self-proclaimed centre of the global art world.
The timing of my arrival was poor; I missed the Museum for African Art section of 'Personal Affects' by a day. I resisted the temptation of knocking on the institution's doors wailing loudly: 'ArtThrob South Africa! Let me in! Let me in! Show me what is still up!'
The first South African artist I encountered in NY was Kobie van Rensburg. Who? Van Rensburg is indeed not the type of artist ArtThrob normally writes about; he sings opera.
In a production of Handel's Rodelinda at the Metropolitan Opera, one of the world's most prestigious companies, Van Rensburg starred as Grimoaldo, the evil usurper. (No jokes about the Afrikaner as tyrant, please.)
Another South African who has made it big in the City is William Kentridge. He was already the first SA artist to appear on the cover of a major American art magazine, he has had a solo show at the MoMA, and now he has a one-man gig at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Yours truly dutifully embarked on a trip to the Met. Once in the museum, I asked for directions to the Kentridge room and got the following answer� an answer that I do not want to withhold from you:
'Sir, you walk straight through Classical, take a right through African art, and then up the stairs in the Modern galleries.'
What Kentridge, a postmodern African artist, is doing in Modern galleries is beyond me, but the Met is not known for its progressive attitudes. At any rate, I did find the room with his work, and my impressions can be found in this month's Reviews.
The African rooms of the Met contain some gorgeous objects, by the way. Their presentation, however, is pathetic, especially compared with the ravishing new set-up of the African collection at the British Museum in London, a similar imperial 'everything from everywhere' institution.
It seems to be Kentridge month in New York. An exhibition currently on show at the International Center of Photography, called 'White: Whiteness and Race in Contemporary Art,' includes four of Kentridge's Eckstein films: Johannesburg, Second Greatest City after Paris; Monument; Mine; and Growing Old.
Some might wonder why whiteness deserves its own show. Maurice Berger, the curator, has a poignant rationale: 'In the end, to overlook representations of whiteness is not only to encourage their predominance but also to neglect their potential frailties and weaknesses.'
The sound of the animated films is regularly overwhelmed by the sonorous rattle of the New York subway, which runs right underneath the gallery. Nonetheless, Kentridge's films caught the eye of many visitors while I was there, and I made a point of advertising his show at the Met to everyone.
A show of the legendary Malick Sibidé and lesser known Emile Guebehi at the Jack Shainman Gallery was next on my list of things to do; my review of the show can be found in the 'Reviews' section. Let me use this space, however, to draw attention to something peculiar.
Guebehi's sculptures looked immensely familiar, and I soon realised that one of his works was included in the show I derided last month: 'Out of Africa: Primitivism in 20th Century Dutch Art.' In that show, Guebehi's sculpture was lumped together with all kinds of classical African art under the label 'primitive.'
And here I was, in a trendy New York gallery dedicated to the contemporary avant-garde, looking at his work once again.
To get away from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, I made a trip to relatives in rustic Montclair, in New Jersey. Browsing through the galleries of the local museum, my eye fell on a sculpture that reminded me of Willie Bester's scrap metal works. It was a face made up from old metal objects. From a distance, I pondered on its resonance with African mask traditions.
Reading the label, I knew I had stumbled upon a treasure. The 1986 piece was part of the 'Lynch Fragments' series by African American artist Melvin Edwards, but it was the title that struck me the most: Mamelodi. Here in New Jersey, often called the armpit of America, I found an object commemorating the brutal suppression of a 1985 protest in the Mamelodi township, which left 13 dead.
Now that is what I call food for thought. More AzaNYa next month.
