The way we live.

My friends I & J have grown themselves a remarkable and happy home, full of colours and layers of interesting things. Over the years I have: eaten many a scrumptious meal with them - indoors and out (there is a pond with a frog, a pool filled with salty water, a sunny stoep with sculptures), played ping pong in the basement, deejayed at parties in the lounge, had lessons in eyeshadow and lashes, splashed in the attic bath, slept over in the spare room a-dreaming of Italy...
these friends of mine are a constant in an
inconsistent world.

I could have spent a day and a night taking pictures, but my camera ran out of juice.

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!

❤

Another man's treasure.

The Victorian Doctor of Madness, aka GQ

 I haven't seen my friend Guy in many years. According to the World Distance Calculator, we live 7817.03 miles apart. But every year around Halloween, I look forward to seeing what him and his wife are getting up to. I haven't met Sabrina yet, but I know that she is a make-up artist extraordinaire. The other day Guy posted an album of photos of these dressmaker's forms or Judies. I pored over them with delight.

Originally from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and destined for the trash, thankfully they have been saved. Most of them are dated, so Guy has kept two for his office, with the date of his arrival in New York. The rest are looking for new homes. Objects worn by the ages and hundreds of hands, by pins and by scissors.

This morning I saw these photos of an abandoned movie theatre in Brooklyn.

Love old-time grandeur.

The way we live.

My friend Bernie lives in the annex of an old synagogue in Salt River. For the next few days at least... and then it's on to a new place - no doubt also extraordinary, but different. I'm so happy I got to photograph it today.
 

For more wonderful things, visit Bernie's shop: The Treasury, on Sir Lowry Road.

Avoiding the herd.

Not to be confused with Anthophobia (a fear of flowers), Anthrophobia is an extreme, pathological form of shyness and timidness. Being a form of social phobia, it may be manifested in fears of blushing, meeting the gaze of others, awkwardness and uneasiness when appearing in society, etc.

I have spells of... let's call it social anxiety. The mere thought of facing a crowd of strange people makes me withdraw into my undemanding little shell. Last week was one of those times and now I suffer a particular kind of ingrained guilt because I disappoint others, as well as myself.

These were the big guns:
 

1. The launch of my dear friend Diane Awerbuck's new collection of short stories, Cabin Fever.

Here in my shell my toes curl and my skin blushes with delight as I read Astronomy Domine.

(The title story strikes tender chords and I lie sleepless, wide-eyed in the dark.)

2. The opening of Gary van Wyk's exhibition of photographs, Private Public.

I went to see it yesterday and was happy to do so without any jostling. I see Gary out and about and I've observed how comfortable people are to be photographed by him. He has this incredible gift - in an unassuming and gentle way - of making people totally at ease. The exhibition left me feeling tranquil and content.

Past (Mirac, Waterval, Gifberg) The Photographer's Gallery

Anthrophobia, in some situations, can result in the person disconnecting themselves from human interaction resulting in the use of electronic contact 

over direct contact.

 Check...

Just what the doctor ordered.

Somewhere over the weekend, the dreaded lurgy crept up and caught me unawares. Sore throat, sneeze attacks and a box of tissues. So yesterday I did the only sensible thing I could think of doing - I went downtown and had a nourishing lunch. My friend Shonah has recently taken over the Crush Cafe in St George's Mall. Her red lentil and cumin soup warmed the cockles of my heart. (That freaky looking juice is apple, ginger and beet. Mighty good stuff.)

thanks darlin'

A smashing party.

I felt honored last night to attend the birthday party of the art teacher. Him and his beautiful wife live in a cottage in the woods. You follow an overgrown pathway strung with fairy lights and in the distance, there's the sound of tinkling glasses and music. It feels like a delicious secret.

And talking about delicious... the art teacher had requested "man food". His wife obliged. There was a slow cooked Cassoulet with haricot beans, chorizo and pork belly. Clouds of mashed potato on the side. I had two man-size helpings. This woman knows her onions.

(Above, the sourcerer's nominee for best-dressed guest.)

A few enchanted hours with friends old and new, bathed in flickering flames and infinite goodwill.
 

City Soirée at Haas Collective

Last night we sat in a row on a velvet settee, beer in hand, while three musicians took it in turn to play for us. And I realized: there is no place I'd rather be. During the interval we spoke about different musical instruments and their limitations. For example - the piano - how far can you push it's abilities?

This is something I have learnt from watching Righard Kapp play his guitar: he can make it sound like almost anything. He throws his whole body into it, he plays it until his fingers bleed. It's wonderful to see how he uses every bit of that instrument. I'm not a musician, so I don't know what other guitarists do with the end of each string, but Righard leaves them standing haywire, and when he shakes them they become a delicate rattlesnake snare.

The show started with a classical guitar performance by Nina Fourie-Gouws. Her hands are startling - the movement of them so contained, but hummingbird-fast.

Mark Fransman played next. His alto-saxophone is a mesmerizing instrument. Dully gleaming, foxed, mysterious keys and buttons. I learnt that it can also be pushed to sound like a thousand other things. I heard a slowly beating metronome and I heard his voice rushing through the wind.

It was extraordinary.

"Open rehearsals and incidental madness"

Thunder and lightning, buckets of rain, broken wipers, missing keys, a moon of horses in total eclipse, one drummer gone amiss... a huge blazing fire, cauldrons of heartwarming soup and a bottomless glass of red wine. And the band. And the band.

❤

Next month, same time, same place?

Girlfriends are the business.

She's been working on a long project and I haven't seen much of her. Yesterday we went for a brisk walk on the promenade and last night we went out for sushi. I looked across the table at this lovely small person and realized that we've known each other for twenty years or more. A winding road with frequent stops for parties and swimming and cooking and laughing. Lean times and fat. She is a constant in an inconsistent world.

❤

As for the sushi... I have very good news.

Papa San is back in town.

Hatsushiro Muraoka (ex Tokyo, ex Minato) has opened up shop in Park Street.

He is as eccentric as ever and the sushi is as fantastic as ever. (The avocado tempura was an unexpected delight.) The interior is minimalist but warm, the handiwork of my friend, architect Toni Unterberger of Rivets and Rockets. Be sure to book.

 

The Milnerton Market

When I started writing here, my idea was to have a place to talk about all the things I have to find for my job as a set decorator/props master/art director and often end up buying, either for work or myself. Of course, as these things do, it evolved into something else - though it's still about finding stuff,
tangible or not.

I do a good deal of shopping at the boot sale in Paardeneiland. (It started on a field in Milnerton and the name stuck) I've been going there for years and often it's quite sociable - one tends to bump into people that you know and have a bit of a chat.

Today is one of those big weather days in Cape Town - rain, sun, puddles and cauliflower clouds with silver linings. Perfect. I was so happy to see my friend Dave Southwood peddling his wares - some camera equipment and also his beautiful book about the market - he's been photographing it for the last ten years. The collector's edition is priced at ZAR 10 000, but the good news is that he's signed a standard book deal, so pretty soon all of us will be able to buy one.

Yay!