So where were you on the night that the ”Kebbles” entered the South African art lexicon? About 700 of us were there to witness Doreen Southwood beat off more than 1 600 entrants to claim the richest visual arts prize in the country. Come to think of it, it’s probably the richest local prize in any arts discipline. Still nowhere near the Nobel literature prize money that will sustain JM Coetzee’s creative juices for the rest of his life, but enough to make an artist feel like she’d never again have to ask her parents to pay for car repairs.
We were a mixed bunch that night. The usual freeloaders, politicians, journos and artists. Some high-profile business personalities. And friends of the Kebble family. Like Judge Willem Heath.
Dinner conversation was varied. There were the cynics who wondered whether this would in fact be an annual award, given the much-publicised court and boardroom battles of the sponsor, Brett Kebble. Then there were the tut-tutting Mother Theresas who thought that the money spent on the lavish affair could have been spent better by feeding starving artists. And then there were those who thought that the cutlery for the different courses was actually an art installation.
Certainly, it was a moneyed affair. A glossy catalogue, top-of-the range entertainment, a slick production, an A-list MC in Khanyi Dhlomo, and a horse of an exhibition — well hung. But as Kebble himself said there is no altruism in these awards. He said that the real reason for the awards had to do with a corporate vision and he went on to describe this vision for a holistic society, for economic delivery to follow the political miracle of transformation, for a multidimensional approach to transformation.
The inaugural Kebbles was a manifestation of the potential for a symbiotic relationship between the arts and business. Prize money worth R305 000 in total (a first prize of R100 000, six awards of R30 000 and five merit awards worth R5 000 each) generated about 1 600 entries, encouraged excellence among artists through the competition process, catapulted some relatively unknown artists on to the national canvas, and exposed South African art to an international market through the exhibition at Cape Town’s International Convention Centre.
However, for a few million rand more in leveraging spend, Kebble and his company were able to project a positive image of themselves on a national scale to major decision-makers, in the media and to their business peers and partners in a way that might have been difficult to do otherwise.
So maybe business people do things differently to artists. And sometimes artists do embarrassing things. Like Yvonne Chaka Chaka who was the party leader on the night, and who announced that she really liked the new South Africa because now the bosses and their domestics can boogie on the same dance floor. That was after she invited someone to sing with her on stage, and then said that because he sang so well, she would buy all his samoosas. No matter that he was the CEO of a well-known company; to the African diva he was just another Indian/Muslim/Arab/Osama bin Laden-like corner-café owner.
Artists and business people don’t have to like each; they only have to learn sufficient respect for each other to know how they may serve each other’s causes, and their own interests in the process.
Kebble has set the bar. Whether he’ll jump over it or spend time behind it remains to be seen. But it is time for other individuals to step forward as patrons of the arts. So what about the Saki Macazoma Writer’s Residency to produce our third literature Nobel laureate? Or the Tokyo Sexwale Fund for Opera Divas? Or perhaps the Cyril Ramaphosa International Jazz Exchange Programme? Or the Schabir Shaik Fancy Footwork Dance Ensemble?