PROGRAMME
Artappil Skilly
Onner byrie stroom
Or what she found there
Lize van Robbroeck
City of Reason and Morals and the Garden of Earthly Delights
In this story, Van Robbroeck weaves a web of daytime idyll and nighttime terror, of little girls in ribbons and men in rubber boots, of rooting and uprooting, of whitewashed churches and bloody abattoirs, of nostalgia and dread. It is a story about the hidden histories of the town called Stellenbosch.
Open Arts
Unmasking Integration
The texts presented in this body of work reflect the experiences of the collective as they problematise (university-publicised) myths of integration, which they believe is masked by pressures to assimilate.
Rachel Collet
Stellenbosch was iemand’s land: a recollection of experiences
A ‘show and tell’ of a collection of the most most vivid impressions of Stellenbosch that Collet is left with. She has attempted to recreate the force of these impressions through colour and scale, and to animate them using speech and gesture. Her aim is not to recreate a lost intellectual or emotional home, but to reflect on belonging as something that waxes and wanes in strength, a fluid state that is temporary by its nature, and that costs us something.
Alida Eloff
An open letter to Mrs M.H. Venter: On the power of lemons, walking nowhere, and being rich by association with an African Grey
Written in response to an open letter addressed to Dear White South Africans, an open letter addressed to Dear Black South Africans, an open letter addressed to the Young People of the American Horse School, an open letter addressed to Oscar Pistorius, the horrific visual entity that is the slaughter chicken, and to being addressed, on 17 February 2015, during the unspoken lunch-hour, by yet another stranger in a bank.
Abri de Swardt
Ridder Thirst (a second draft of a voiceover screenplay in four parts)
Written in response to Alice Mertens’ Stellenbosch (1966, Nasionale Boekhandel, reissued in 1979 as an expanded edition by Human & Rousseau)
Artappil Skilly
Visogies
Or if I drop upon my toe a very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so of that old man I used to know- whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, whose hair was whiter than the snow, whose face was very like a crow, with eyes, like cinders, all aglow, who seemed distracted with his woe, who rocked his body to and fro, and muttered mumblingly and low, as if his mouth were full of dough, who snorted like a buffalo – that summer evening long ago, a-sitting on a gate.
