The way we live.

via http://philip.greenspun.com

Somewhere in my twenties, I visited the Dachau Concentration Camp Museum, near Munich. It was only then that the true horror of this period in history became painfully clear to me.

Although what happened there was hideous - and I remember feeling nauseated, what finally made me break down and weep was the full wall of photographs of the survivors, on the day that they were finally set free. The emaciation, the look in their eyes.

It has happened in the past that I have worked on historical dramas where we have had to do research on the war and dress Nazi offices, or U-Boats. You are surrounded by the colours, the flags, the swastika, the SS logos. It is not something I can get used to and it feels... forbidden, uncomfortable.

Yesterday we went to see a collector about using some of his memorabilia as props and dressing on our current project. In the corridor, a tall woman with a fine paintbrush was doing a trompe l'oeil mural of exposed brickwork and distressed plaster.
The collector received us in his outer office, where there is a considerable amount of Boer War memorabilia - paintings, documents, uniforms and weapons. I found this interesting.

We then started talking about the items we needed to dress a Nazi Colonel's office. I noticed that the collector was wearing a silver SS death head ring on his slim, tanned middle finger.

Tall, suave, a smooth talker. Son of a Dutch Reformed minister. He led us into his inner sanctum, where a large, spot-lit oil portrait of Adolph Hitler presides over his desk. A bronze bust of that man atop a filing cabinet. The deco armchairs, he assures us, are from the Führer's apartment in Vienna. He has sixteen different copies of Mein Kampf. The SS typewriter's s-key reads SS.

"No photographs please", he says with a smile. He chain smokes, holding his cigarette in the underhanded way of a soldier at war.

There are cases filled with medals and weapons. The walls are adorned with portraits and flags. Also, stacked against the wall: portraits of nude, sculpted women.

He lets his hand linger on my shoulder blade when he motions for me to pass.

I think I will make do with what I can rent from the prop houses.

A German evening bag from the 1930's. I found it in Simonstown, at an antique shop. Beautiful at first glance, but hidden amongst the roses...

The way we live.

One day in Johannesburg, we decided to hop on the Gautrein and go to see Dawid in Hatfield. The train is great, fast and clean. (But not exactly transport for the people, at about R250 each, return) The stations are utilitarian and boring in a grey way. Perhaps the city spent all their money on the train, and that's why it is so broken... the long legged man mused.

I'd heard about Dawid in Cape Town - the industry people call him "The Braam of Pretoria". But nothing could have prepared us for what we found. There is a very fine line between collecting and hoarding. It was almost impossible to take photographs, as you have to squeeze through small gaps to get anywhere. Dawid wasn't home - he said something about taking care of an old sewing machine, but that we should make ourselves at home - wander around, have some coffee. The dalmatian was old and very tired - he lifted his head to bark. The collie and the curly one followed us for a while.

They were very dusty and very happy.

The house may once have been a rather gracious villa, with palms and fruit trees in the garden. Now it is packed to bursting point with anything and everything imaginable. The back garden is a shed with canvas sides, aisles upon aisles of furniture packed in layers. The bathroom, besides a large purple bathtub, is filled with old enamel jugs and basins. There are bags and boxes and crates full of stuff everywhere. Lamps, chairs, umbrellas, crockery, taxidermy, mannequins and statues...

Dawid arrived in due course and we had a good old natter. Even though we'd not met before, he is one of those people who immediately feels like an old friend. I told him I'd heard about him often and he said with a twinkle: Ah - skinner hulle van my in die kaap?

(Are they gossiping about me in the cape?)

By this time, the LLM was feeling rather uneasy - he collects too, but everything in beautifully ordered classes and categories. It is difficult to believe that Dawid runs a thriving props rental business from this extraordinary place, but he does. He also lives here.

As we were leaving, I happened to mention my obsession with wooden cotton reels and he said: Oh! Have you seen my haberdashery?

Lo and behold - he took me to a room I had missed completely. Partly because you have to squeeze behind a wardrobe to enter it. Floor to ceiling drawers filled with buttons and braids, books of needles and cotton reels. Heaps of them. Heaven.

Ode to Vicky Leandros.

 In South Africa, ownership is a really big deal. People want to own their houses and their land. You grow up thinking that it's really important, and you feel a lack when you don't.

But what do you do when you just can't afford to buy a house or an apartment in the place where you want to be? You rent from friends with trust funds, you find something in the paper. You live in a place you could never afford to buy, not in a million years.

I'm the kind of person who likes a bit of space around me, especially over my head. Low ceilings are the Devil's work. I rent a place in the city that would cost close to R 2 000 000 to buy. It has skylights that leak when it rains and I can hear the neighbors sneeze. But it's up in the clouds and surrounded by giant trees and when I walk in the door, I sigh with happiness.

I have friends who rent a house on a curve in the road, overlooking the bay of Fish Hoek. When I walked into their house the other day, everything seemed to fall into place and make sense. This is why we do it. It's a dream, but we're living it.
The garden slopes up the mountain, seemingly forever. Covered in fynbos, with birds darting in and out. There's a serenity there that I would find very hard to leave in the mornings.

And for dessert, there was pumpkin pie.

Watch Daddy Make Sushi Day.

I should have taken a picture of the empty plates, but I was too full to move...

Thank you Willow!

❤