‘No more putting the kids at risk. No more violence.’
‘Not from us.’
‘Because if there is…’
Toby
The footage from the security cams in the gallery is playlisted on all the newscasts, animal rights activists gone seriously mental, and there’s all kinds of uproar, from the Minister of Safety and Security swearing to step up measures against terrorism to arts critics alternately decrying it as a tacky publicity stunt or lauding it as bold political theatre that outstrips any performance art done previously. Or, to put it another way, kids, it’s huge, and my exclusive eyewitness is piggybacking off it beautifully.
It’s not that there weren’t plenty of people with cams and chamo clothing, but I was the only one with the smarts to jump up on the bar to lock down the best angle.
My report went out this morning – the edited version with extra commentary. I’ve already had an offer to syndicate Diary of Cunt from a producer on MTV.
But maybe you want to watch that again? I can do it easily, you know. Just hit ‘replay’.
KENDRA ADAMS’S SHOW is a sell-out. Her shockingly intimate portraits taken on old photographic stock interplay light and texture like a Dutch Master. The effect of using disintegrating film means the work is inherently flawed, inherently damaged. Her first exhibition has been an unprecedented success, every work snapped up in a bidding scrum that forced the prices up to eight times the sticker. Not bad going for a girl who dropped out of Michaelis Art College six months ago. No insult to the artist or the striking technical mastery demonstrated in Unspoken – a woman’s jawline arching out of shot, delineated against a twist of stair well and the arc of city lights, or the harsh reality of a homeless woman being defused, or the witty statement of Self-Portrait, a 2 x 3.5 m print that is entirely black, but her skill is not the reason her work is suddenly so popular. It’s be cause her photographs are newly flawed that she’s flooring the critics and the art buying public, hungry to claim a whif of scandal, a bloody scrap of current events. Those fourteen portraits all carry the mark of violation from the invasion of Thursday evening, when animal-rights actives hacked apart enfant terrible Khanyi Nkosi’s controversial and grotesque bio mod creature, Woof & Tweet. Nkosi commented:
‘It’s revolting that anyone would try to profit of my loss. This is an atrocity. It’s up there with blood diamonds and wartech corps racking up their cash registers over the stink of corpses!’
Prices for her work have already sky rocketed, especially on her other almost-animals like Sweetheart Sputnik, an oversized heart riddled with receivers, that quickens or slows its rhythm according to incoming text messages from the audience. And the corpse of Woof & Tweet, stinking or not, has already been sold to a Dubai businesswoman, who paid, it’s rumoured, in the region of R1.7 million for the bloody gibs, together with the video footage and one panga that was left behind, unused. The 22 year-old Adams was unavailable for comment, recovering from the fraught of the eve, although her manager-elect, Jonathan Rider, said:
‘We hope to assure Khanyi Nkosi that no one is trying to undermine the agony of what she must be going through. I don’t want to suggest that it’s egotistical to believe that the only reason Kendra’s photographs have sold so well is that they have some residue of blood from her piece’s awful preemptive disassembly, but I believe Ms Nkosi is quite undone by the grief. It’s very unfortunate that she’s demanded a share of the profits on Kendra’s sales, considering her stature internationally in the art world, while Kendra is an aspirant up-and-coming young artist, fresh to the scene. Kendra’s work speaks for itself and it obviously speaks to its audience. And that’s really all there is to it. We’ve also offered to have the prints professionally cleaned and restored, removing any traces of organic matter, for those buyers who request it.’ So far, none have.
<follow up story Monday 25 September>
It’s enough to spike interest, a calling-card to the world that’s helped drive up a more generous price on the candid interview with Kendra and Damian talking about their all-new injectable tech.
I’ve edited together a teaser – you might have seen it already, it’s the one that starts:
KENDRA ADAMS SOLD out her first exhibition a couple of days ago, but now it seems that she’s sold out in another way entirely, as one of Ghost’s controversial sponsor babies.
And now I’m just kicking back, waiting for the offers to start spinning in.
In the interim, Unathi is not letting me squirm out of the FallenCity mission. It’s not so bad. I can kill some waiting time and blow off steam by fragging a few people in realspace.
And hey, it’ll be good to see Julia again, seeing as how Kendra is not speaking to me at the moment.
Lerato
‘What are you doing?’
Mpho raises his head from his arms to look up at me. It’s fairly obvious he’s been crying. It’s bad enough I have the whole family memorial ceremony ahead, but finding him here, camped outside my apartment door, just upped the ante on a day already heading straight for shitty territory.
‘Waiting for you,’ he says, getting to his feet.
‘Well, I’m here now. Sooooo, I guess you can go.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, what’s the point?’
‘We could—’
‘Talk? That would be based on the assumption we have anything to talk about.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That’s because you don’t listen. I told you it was a one-time deal. I’m not up for a serious affair. It was just fun, Mpho. Good times. And now the good times are done. Excuse me, you’re kinda blocking the door.’
‘Jesus. Do you have to be so hard?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ I start to move around him, but he takes me by the elbows.
‘Yeah, me too. You obviously care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a bitch about it. It’s really sad, Lerato.’
‘Not as sad as this, this last-stand psychoanalysis thing you’re doing. Nice try, Mpho. But you, what we had? I don’t give a shit. For really really real. I’m already seeing someone else. And he knows how to get me going.’ I run the tip of my tongue over parted lips. ‘If you know what I’m saying. Now get out of my way.’
He lets go of me and steps aside, his face tilted to the floor, not even looking at me. I swish past him into the apartment and he turns to make the long slow walk back to the elevators.
Before the door slides closed, he calls back bitterly, not looking round, ‘Congrats on the promotion.’
Jane pokes her head out of her room, looking disapproving and happily scandalised at the same time. ‘You really can pick them. He’s been sitting outside for two and a half hours.’
‘He’ll get over it. What he needs is someone as sweet and dull as he is.’
‘I was about to take pity and let him in.’
‘You should have. You two might have hit it off.’
‘Oh thanks, Lerato.’
‘Come on, you know that’s not what I meant.’ That’s exactly what I meant, but I don’t want to upset the peace. It’s only a couple more weeks max that I’ll have to put up with Jane’s fustiness.