RESIDENCY2009

My first month in Switzerland, Zurich has been really interesting. Armed with a living allowance, through Pro-Helvetia(http://www.prohelvetia.ch/) I am hosted by the Rote Fabrik (http://www.rotefabik.ch/), who have provided a flat, studio and a platform for interaction with other artists in Switzerland.
Before I arrived I was put into contact with Marisa Godoy of Oona Project a choreographer and dancer working and living in Switzerland. We exchanged ideas on creating and what we have in common and I discovered she originates from Brazil so our issues on funding and creating work on a shoe string budget are the norm. After a few emails she invited me to come sooner to Zurich to watch her rehearsal process for a show called "please" opening in May at Theathre Gesneralle, so with much enthusiasm my residency started on a good note. Having a structure to attend rehearsals that start at 10 am till 5 pm I found it made the first month easy.
It was a flexible agreement that allowed me the luxury to sleep in on days when I could not wake up early.
Having watched her process a lot of questions still remain in my head that I doubt will be answered anytime soon.
Being allowed to watch rehearsals meant that I was constantly in a creative environment. Asking different questions in my head, about the role of performing or the performer and what I beleive to be.
I also watched theatre shows outside of Zurich and at the Rote Fabrik as it is a working cultural house with theatre, concerts and all sorts of other cultural events.

Through this resdency I have been introduced to thinking differently about the creation process and gaining more confidence as an artist.
I have learned the importance of having a "try out". Where a panel is invited to see the show before the real audience sees it. Here there will be a discussion and questions about decisions that make or break the work. This allows for open critism and advise on how the work could perhaps be made better.
I have also learned the value of having resources. My original application for the residency included the opportunity to create without pressure or lack of funding and to be able to discuss my problems with other practitioners .
I am slowly discovering my own process and hope more of my questions will organically answer themselves as I engage in my own rehearsal.

FUGEREE

This show is performed as public intervention or sight specific work.

"Fugeree" was created in Amsterdam, it was a response to the Xenophobic violence that took place in South Africa.

Long weekend

Cabin Fever…

 

Drinking tea waits for no one;

Quickly, crinkle your skirt and bargain for a cup of tea.

 

Crunch your way toward the syrup taste of donughts

 and chocolate chip cookies.

Fold your serviette in half and wait for a jam drooling toasted sandwich;

 that looks like its dreaming about caramel peanut butter.

 Indulge yourself in pepper, sprayed, pesto and cheese roll exploding with chicken pieces;

 mocking you from the one side of the bread….

Smother your tongue and let your teeth gnaw at a green fresh piece of lettuce;

 that cries “help” as you chew her friend; the cucumber slice she partied with the night before.

Crush some ice and strawberries and machine yourself a smoothie filled with wholesome goodness…

 and a teaspoon of fresh cream on top.

Still not satisfied huh?

Well then step right in and sizzle your self a tender steak,

 bleeding rawness and perfection; that when you start to chew;

 it oozes barbeque in sweet and sour garlic.

Throw your head in cream, butter, cheesyfied mashed potatoes dully waiting to be consumed.

 

I will say no more…

 

Love vs Loneliness

Untitled

Writing love songs is like flamingos spilling into flight at sunrise.

Painting the sky, peach and orange.

Love songs are the twist of the tongue

Wanting to roll out, something smooth.

It’s the throat burning to sing a song;

 to soften the palate.

Love songs are the purging of a coy mistress;

 Fantasising about her estranged lover.

It’s the sad hum of an unsuspecting girlfriend;

 Sighing at the thought of her man lost in a big world.

Love songs are for crush crazed school girls;

Who create scenarios about love making and the art of relating.

It’s the hushed conversations about how

 He ejaculated onto her thighs.

 

Loneliness is the sick feeling in the stomach while the intestines play hide and seek,

Threatening anorexia.

It’s the unexpected nausea brought on by binging on chocolates and ice cream.

Loneliness is hearing a knock at the door and there’s nobody there.

It’s the door bell that never rings, communicating unknown call me backs to the cell phone.

 

Love songs are strange words written in a foreign language;

 by a caffeine fiend / poet lost in translation.

He scribbles reminiscing of summer days and rainfall at the park.

Love songs are for fat ladies sitting under the shade of a tree,

The compare stories of their first night.

Revealing secrets of stained sheets and the rejection of an un bleeding new bride.

 

Loneliness is an empty sigh after really good sex. It’s a feeling unsatisfied with life’s love

Whether they are precious moments or dull days in the sun.

Loneliness is the sound of a siren alerting the paranoia and numbing the taste buds.

The mind creating shadows that randomly appear.

 

Love songs are for good boys and clever lads decking their cards.

They pile their experiences to their wit and cunning.

It’s the drunken masters’ last story before he passes out.

Love songs are the dance of spirit as it sweats out passion.

Creating an air of angered petals, that breathes sweat and heavy panting.

It’s the charm at the beginning of a love affair tightening the air with tension.

 

Loneliness is the grey clouds constantly covering a girl’s sun.

Making her walk in the shade and be the only person with jersey on a spring day.

Loneliness is a sad blow of the wind; howling strange tunes.

The leaves dancing out of rhythm,

Crackling the branches that break off in disappointment.

Loneliness is the pounding of the drums.

Droning into oblivion with no beat in particular.

Inviting depression and unknown sorrow of past pain.

Loneliness is the regret and shame of love lost, love broken.

It’s the harsh whisper of self hatred and harsh self judgement.

 

Love songs are the pull and twist of a violin, crying out wanting to be heard,

Strings popping of place.

It’s the tight pull and blues of a lonely guitar in an empty flat;

Missing the grey shade of a piano.

 

May 2008 Amsterdam

 

 

 

 

Short Story for Durban in a Word. A collection by Diane Steward, Published by Penguin.

URBAN LEGEND by Ntando Cele

 

Beats that drum to the beat of the nation.

Vibes that soar to tear up the tar, cracking the center

blurring the line.

Beat….beat …Godzilla approaching beat…

Cars. People, beat…concrete. Beat hear the call.

Vibes, earlobes exploding, hold your hairpiece

 strike a pose the city is vibin’.

 

Climax hits the sky, ecstasy high lifting me to flight.

Leaving the ground to exhale in the clouds.

Feet leaving the ground, smoke left behind.

Body spiral, play her your flute.

Elongated, hot weary of latitude she slides into the abyss to never return.

 

I tell of our meeting...

 

She sits on the edge of a canvas as if about to leap into a sea of rage, purging emotions, spilling the beans. Wrapped in a blanket of hope for love and humankind, she twirls in the canvas, splashing it Red, as if to spill into the sun. Green that overflows freshness rooting into the unknown. Blue as wide as the sky, deepening into space.

 

“Shosholoza” they sing, praising her as she bounces from coast to coast. The children have heard stories of how one day, she will magically drop from the sky, transforming the poor to drooping idiots with gold teeth the size of Puff Daddy's hand. The sad and bereaved to possessed worshipers, leaping to be saved.

The legend goes that everyone in the city will line up to touch her cloth. Some believe she will start on Point Road, while others say she will be received on Musgrave Road. She will then take her rightful place as the mother of the nation, the daughter to Chatsworth, worthy of Wentworth, princess of Umlazi, goddess of Newlands.

 

Blues sway the city, blues at Smith, coloured by holiday makers. I lay awake, pupils dare not close, insomnia phenomena. It's the usual, outside my window, the Berea is kind to the vendors. They cover it like a plague. Night time provides for some cleansing. “Who heard of one so dirty?” I  think to myself, wanting to strip away the dirty layers of my skin. My thoughts swing to empty happiness, holding my sadness firm while the darkness slowly pulls me in.

 

Outside the air is tight with uncertainty. Only the dogs see the fire flies, that announce her arrival. They howl like any other day, not altering their pitch makes them sound monotone.

Paper wrapped, dripping with the stench of urban lights,she lands in Durban. Her dress blows in the wind. Buzzing with the fresh thoughts that travel till eternity, she smiles, her feet nearly touching the ground.

Peace raiding Westville, west of Field Street. Morningside robots point toward the broad blankness of empty streets. Nobody knew she would be arriving tonight or just like

 the second coming, the women would have layered the streets with their attire,covering the tar. The children would sing alongside the streets,choirs competing to lament her arrival. The men would slaughter a cow in preparation for the feast, to rock till sunrise. The streets would be filled with celebrity wannabe's  wanting to be filmed in her presence. She chooses to look towards my window, maybe she heard the demons that bark inside my head.

 

Suddenly I smell the light, wet, weak but hot with comfort, canceling the despair. She sings at my window. Tuning in to her laughter my insides melt, as her words wrangle their way into my soul. I am lifted high,  high above the sky nearly touching the stars.  I know immediately that it is she. The legend also talks of how she reaches deep within and releases your light, warmth that shines forever. Burning all sins beyond recognition.

As she whispers to me, my soul touches hers. I catch a glimpse of lands she has seen, people she has touched,and the horror to come. I'm destined to tell her truth, I give in to absolute pleasure, open my arms to receive my gift. Eyes closed, mouth open...  She disappears... I breath.

 

Ear crackling, shackles locking , wet with erosion

I’m back, energized vibrating deep in my center.

Sensual red purity, hot zest steaming at the top of my head.

Burning with lust. Stroke of pop, streak of funk,

Shaking my wild hair to vibe..vibe.. beat… beat.

Vibes that soar gushing to pour out my senses.

Jive..jive… to the street.

 

 I yearn for more. I follow her.  Try to make out where she is. I’ve lost her in the crowd. I catch a glimpse of her yellow dress, I follow the smell of breyani. Her hair flows  like a mythical being I have seen on television.(Yet she is not blonde)  Calling me in ancient voice I float towards her.  Pen and paper in hand, clear visions of ecstasy, free of my own shackles, my soul floats. We fly high.

At this height they say you shouldn’t look down, I spot matchbox houses filed neatly behind malls, hidden from the passing eyes on the freeways. Squalor buzzes with blues for a better future, holidays on the beach, sunsets that leave you breathless.

 I take a deep breath as white air fills my lungs, clean air, fresh air. I dream of traveling out of this city. I dream of lush green pastures that roll out on the rocks and valleys of  a thousand hills, pretending they never end. I want to follow her where ever she goes...

 I spit at the deep blue sea calm with unrest of the unknown. I pretend I don’t know what it holds; I pretend I can’t smell the future, grey with colonial memoirs.

Finally we sit on the rocks on the edge of the sea, she tells me her lungs spit out a nation of the damned, not damned because they’re unlucky, they’re unlucky for they grope in the dark trying to find themselves. She has mercy on them,touched by their misery. Like Father Christmas she blesses  them while they sleep, magically anointing their foreheads. She promises better days, days of wealth and happiness in the land of the free.

 

 I know it is everyman for himself,you find your agenda and stick to it. Nameless dumbfounded they will always need her. Her story is the bread that feeds the empty souls roaming the streets, searching for their identity. It is the blanket that warms the streets on cold winter nights, lighting the fires till daybreak. Some even paint the streets in her honour,as did the San in their caves. I fear if she stays too long she will bargain with her soul without a thought. Then all hope will be empty. All of this I don’t say. Pen to paper I tell her story.

 

Pounding hearts , Afros, wild cool with rhythm.

Visions of happy clubbing, sipping cape velvet, silk sarong wrapped from my ankles.

Cool air damp with cool raindrops, wild side, drum side,

Run with the wind, wet ‘n  wild. Beat.. beat..

 

Running with the pulse” Who are these people?” African dream

”Where do they come from?” look bright see white paint the town black

The city is vibin’ …beat… beat…beat.. beat.

 

I write, I write of a legend I once heard speak...

 

NTANDOYENKOSINTOKOZOCELE

iNtandoyenkosi I ran away from, till iNtokozo was hard to find.

The will is inevitable in the search for happiness.

 I thank you my God, intando yakho mayenziwe;

 through my happiness.

20/04/08 Belguim