“For most of history Anonymous was a woman.” – Virginia Woolf When I started ANON. as a pop-up gallery in January 2019, I was inspired by this Virginia Woolf quote. I’d never thought of myself as a feminist, and yet this powerful line had sat with me for almost
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(exhibition release) 42 Trill Road, Observatory, Cape Town21 to 25 February 2019 “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman” – Virginia Woolf Introducing ANON. ANON. is a new contemporary gallery concept launching at this debut show in February 2019. Conceived, curated and produced by Sarah Jayne Fell, ANON. is a democratic space
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An artist profile written for the artist. Republished in Sawubona, South African Airways’ in-flight magazine, March 2013. Faith47 is a South African artist whose work has become part of the fabric of cities around the world. The beauty she finds in the brokenness of abandoned spaces resonates through
Continue ReadingIn 2010 I interviewed Roger Ballen for one small seed at Iziko gallery in Cape Town.
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Christopher Slack’s art evokes the current global preoccupation with East-versus-West politics and the role mass media plays in juggling our viewpoints on the issue. His paintings of bikini-clad pinup girls straddling television sets and brandishing large weapons are treated with hyperrealistic precision and set against saturated enamel
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Pieter Hugo is quickly gaining notoriety as Africa’s premier photographer for his reinvention of the representation of Africa to the West. Frequently quoted for declaring the death of photography, Hugo is indicative of a generation whose sensibility is fine-tuned to the delicate role of the photographer, realising
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She looked across at him through the serving-hatch and watched him page through the Daily News. She stood chopping peeled carrots, two at a time, into little orange medallions. Onions sizzled in a pan nearby. She glared at the face hidden behind the printed pages, thinking, How
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She waits at the bus stop one afternoon and her daydreams succumb to the summer heat. Vision blurs as her gaze is absorbed by the shimmering mirage on the road and she is far away in the desert somewhere, delirious, or on drugs. And then into her
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You died that day, a Monday in May. 8am traffic is always worse on Mondays. Hooters denote all flavours of bad language as a polka-dotted vehicle turns right in a left-only lane, and a man with no legs riding a wheelbarrow weaves between the stopped-up patchwork of
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I offered to help you peel hard-boiled eggs earlier. You said no, I’d break them like I did last time. Last time, I said, the eggs were over-cooked. Stuck to their shells. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t like peeling eggs anyway. Last Christmas, I gave you glasses.
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