I met Madiba once. I shook his hand. I then decided to launch a commercial art series featuring my handprint with the title The hand that shook Mandela’s. Aware that about a quarter of the world’s population had probably shaken Madiba’s hand, I rushed to my lawyer to have my intellectual property protected, so that I could be the only one to benefit commercially from a handprint series with that title.
“No problem,” said my lawyer. “Just trust me,” he smiled with a glint (of what looked like foreign currency) in his eyes. Three weeks later, I discovered that he had set up 15 000 trust funds with him or his third wife as the sole trustees and ranging in titles from The hand that shook Archbishop Tutu’s, and The Hand that held Charlize Theron’s to The Hand that shook Wayne Ferreira’s, just in case anyone cared. I discovered then what lawyers meant by trust.
So I took myself off to a colour photocopying machine and, after spending some time, spending some money and putting my hand first palm-down and then knuckle side-up (which was the same thing, but good art requires these technical terms), I produced a few black and white copies of a handprint that would be rejected by the FBI’s database of “war-on-terror” fingerprints, but might pass for art in today’s gullible world. I had it framed — no, not by my ex-lawyer — but by a bookkeeper who advertised cheap desktop publishing services along with assistance with tax returns in the classified section of the evening rag.
I then knocked on the doors of 100 art galleries, none of which had heard of me as an artist. (Not surprisingly, as I had only recently discovered my talent.) Eventually, one agreed to represent me in a deal where it would take 60% of all sales and I would get 40%, minus any costs it incurred in mounting the work. So now I had to pay it to have its way with my art. This is the bizarre contemporary art world! They explained that they had to cover all kinds of items like rent, salaries and wine, without which it wouldn’t be possible to bring my work to its intended market.
While I waited to become an instant millionaire through this clever art scheme, I thought that I could make additional income by writing a book about the day I shook Mandela’s hand. I produced a manuscript in record time and flogged it to various publishers, who simply had no commercial vision. Otherwise, why would they all have rejected my book? They turned up their obviously un-transformed noses at my work, skulking behind an outdated notion of standards (who gives a toss about standards when there’s money to be made?), with one having the audacity to suggest that the best use of my manuscript would be to start a fire on a cold winter’s day.
In retrospect, I was quite glad at this rejection because I learned that writers get a paltry 5% to 10% royalty fee — just enough to buy a printer cartridge, which is a little more than buying a new printer.
Next, I thought of composing a song and producing a gospel CD of the day that I shook Mandela’s hand. Not because of anything as blasphemous as Madiba being a god or being on sacred ground in his presence, but because it made commercial sense in a country where gospel was the most popular form of music. After all, this was about making money. For charity. And charity begins at home. My home. Which I would like to be in Clifton.
The record companies suggested a 5% royalty as a newcomer. After all, they were carrying the risk. My CD might not sell they said, particularly if I insisted on it being recorded in the shower. It was the same thing with film producers. I would get a small percentage for my intellectual property, and then they also wanted to dictate who played the lead roles. Morgan Freeman to play Madiba. Danny de Vito to play me.
There once was a T-shirt that said “We don’t want bread, we want the bakery”. It’s no longer good enough to have a unique recipe. Or even a bakery. It’s marketing and distribution, stupid.