Nine rooms of utterly stupendous art, by more than 150 artists, await you at the Iziko: South African National Gallery. Wonderfully curated, beautifully displayed, the artworks of A Decade of Democracy lead you into 10 years of diverse, combative, epiphanic art production.
I’m not talking about a celebratory feel-good fest here — some of the works will make you hate the fact that you’re a South African, some will make you realise that you have no idea what the hell a South African is, and others will incense you.
But at the end of it, you’ll know that South African art is powerful, intelligent and unabashedly of its place.
Wandering through these rooms, the viewer will perhaps initially identify with art that speaks directly. For some, Peet Pienaar’s Who Am I? (1997) will be emblematic — in every sense — of the decade of democracy.
A jumbled collection of military medals, tiny flags, ribbons and sports badges on green felt — many of which are now obsolete, if not actually illegal — stand in testimony to the battles fought to pin down a particular version of the South African identity.
For others, Marlene Dumas’s The Next Generation (1994/95), 44 watercolours of faces (and one penis), will provide the entry. Dumas’s pictures of a next generation of South Africans seem filled with hazy hope, although certainly not a naive one.
They contrast violently with Kendell Geers’s TW Series (1997). This consists of 10 photolithographs of criminals, each with a descriptor (Gangster, Hijacker, Murderer, Armed Robber, Mercenary, Terrorist) printed in red across his face.
Faces and bodies are popular subject matter for many of the artists featured. Berni Searle’s Traces (2000) consists of six life-sized hanging digital prints with the artist’s body imprinted on each, either covered in, or framed by, spice. Thembinkosi Goniwe’s Untitled (2000) shows the artist’s dreadlocked face alongside that of Malcolm Payne, both wearing Band-Aids on their cheeks.
A variety of voices is represented, literally in the case of James Webb’s Prayer (2002).
Speakers are set into grey material covering a large floor area, and from them emanate a random collage of prayers from various religions. At certain points, you can hear the distinct call of a particular faith, at others, there’s just a cacophony of voices striving to be heard.
In any one room, you can find a host of contradictions and similarities. Isichumo/Beer Baskets by several artists, including Beauty Ngxongo (1994) and Lucy Mkotshwa (1994), stand on a platform, their tightly woven functionality marvels of intricate beauty. They highlight the satire of Lisa Brice’s Make Your Home Your Castle (1995), which stands nearby. In Brice’s extremely funny work, a welcome mat is printed with the words “Alarm on?” Decorative burglar bars bear the inscription “Relax”. Doilies and white cotton pillows are embroidered with “Flying Squad 10111”.
The ideological complexities of industry and craft, and especially those associated with traditionally female crafts, give poignancy to Brice’s art about insecurity.
A little further over, adorning a length of wall, is Sandile Zulu’s Frontline Three with Centurion Models (1997). It’s a beautiful, ominous piece: spear-shaped objects made of reeds and fibres. Alan Alborough’s Heathen Wet Lip (1997), consists of dried elephant ears hanging from wire, and elephants’ feet on a metal shelf.
There’s a complex reading to be made here of the politics of land and environment in South Africa.
The work that is used on the cover of the book accompanying the show, and on the invitations, is Tracey Rose’s delightful, joyous The Kiss (2001).
Some wags would point out that a picture of a naked South African artist sitting on the lap of her naked American art dealer says more about the economics of our decade of democracy than we’d like. But this is a strength of this exhibition — it doesn’t always take the safe option.
There are many in South Africa who have their hearts in the right place. It’s more rare for there to be a happy conjunction with a mind that is also in the right place. Curator Emma Bedford, and the staff of the SANG, stand up and take a bow.
A Decade of Democracy is a fine exhibition that manages to be proudly South African — and severely critical of that pride.