FEATURES / APARTHEID IN MANHATTAN / M. NEELIKA JAYAWARDANE
APARTHEID IN
MANHATTAN
M. Neelika Jayawardane considers the simultaneous trauma and everydayness of
apartheid as presented in an exhibition at the International Center for Photography
in New York
Jürgen Schadeberg, Nelson Mandela, Treason Trial, 1958. Image courtesy the artist
The International Center for
Photography (ICP) is located in the
heart of Manhattan, at the corner of
West 43rd Street and the Avenue of
the Americas. Nearby, Times Square’s
mirages – brilliant expanses of neon
fantasies, some spanning the length
of several stories and the breadth of
entire city blocks – summon passersby with images of athletes, models,
slick tans and racy footwear. There
are some visible traces of ‘Africa’:
West African men sell pashmina
scarves, woollen hats and gloves in
street corner stalls, and Disney’s The
Lion King rules Broadway – now in
its fifteenth year running, the show
has a stretch of window displays
dedicated to re-instituting Africa as a
place of masks, skins and noble, halfhuman animals.
A yellow banner with black lettering
– stretching across the length of
the ICP’s ground floor windows –
announces the current exhibition,
Rise and Fall of Apartheid. Near
the front entrance is a massive
poster of a familiar image: a young
Nelson Mandela, dapper in a doublebreasted suit, a kerchief folded
neatly in his pocket and a parting
combing a straight arrow through his
hair. It’s late afternoon, and people
rush by to the Bryant Park subway
entrance on the corner, stopping
to look only when they see me
taking photographs. On the adjacent
windows, posters of protestors
displaying placards: a crowd of
black women and one chubby white
schoolboy in shorts and shoes stand
together, holding signs printed
with the legend, ‘We Stand by Our
Leaders’. Another placard declares,
‘Citibank, You Finance Apartheid’. And
a man holding a homemade poster
pleads for his love: ‘My Wife Emma
Held 55 Days. Release All Detainees’.
The number ‘55’ is enclosed within
a black box, drawing attention to his
waiting, and her capture. I stood
before this image, meditating on that
pictograph. Though he must have
been engulfed by a fear beyond my
experience, this photograph conveyed
something of it to me: quiet and
constant, resonating across the
ocean of unknowability that stands
between the viewer and the act of
regarding the pain of others.
Curators Okwui Enwezor and Rory
Bester’s intent for this exhibition
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– to ensure that the typical ways in which
Africans are portrayed as hapless victims are
not rehashed here at the ICP – is clear. Instead,
we see the ways in which South Africans
were powerfully engaged as ‘agents in their
own emancipation’. Enwezor states, in a press
release, ‘What I was principally interested in is
the way in which apartheid gave us an image
of a political doctrine that transformed from a
juridical instrument into a normative reality.’ That
normative reality is what the show’s subtitle
refers to as ‘the bureaucracy of everyday life’.
But does this exhibit show the mundane and
the ordinary? My childhood memories of South
Africa in the 1980s, on a visit to Johannesburg
with my family, are not of stoic, morally
upstanding white ladies holding protest placards,
nor of unified black and white rows confronting
menacing police. What I remember was that the
shop ladies at Woolworths were surprised that
we – an ‘Indian’ family come down from Zambia
on what was, essentially, a shopping trip – were
present in the heart of Johannesburg, and that
we had money to buy dresses there.
The ICP’s exhibition comprises ‘nearly 500
photographs, films, books, magazines,
newspapers, and assorted archival documents
and covers more than 60 years of powerful
photographic and visual production that forms
part of the historical record of South Africa,’ and
includes nearly seventy photographers’ work:
some are well known worldwide, like David
Goldblatt, Peter Magubane, Alf Kumalo and
Gideon Mendel; and others are virtually unknown
outside of photography circles, even within
South Africa. The long and complicated story of
what happened between 1948 and 1990 is told
chronologically, through a multitude of images.
Using banner-sized panels of texts – denoting
the different decades in apartheid history, as
well as smaller panels of text explaining
philosophical and political shifts – Enwezor and
Bester project a particular perspective that
helps direct the visitor.
What does South Africa mean to Manhattan?
Here, in Midtown, is it possible to communicate
the mundane absurdities of ‘[O]ne of the most
repressive and detested political systems ever
devised’? Can photography translate apartheid,
for this audience – one whose bus tickets
declare, on the back, that seating on public
transport here ‘is without regard to race, creed,
color or national origin’? Many Americans forty
and older remember taking part in disinvestment
rallies during their heady college years, camping
out on their picturesque university lawns
to protest endowments with portfolios that
included corporations that continued to do
business in South Africa. They may remember
an older show of photo essays at the ICP, back
in the summer of 1986: ‘South Africa: The
Cordoned Heart’ gave ‘a multiracial group of
twenty South African photographers’ (including
several included in the current exhibition: Omar
Badsha, Rashid Lombard, Jeeva Rajgopal) a
chance to show what life was like behind the
spectacular news stories. It was the first time
that most Americans had seen the grueling
violence of everyday poverty juxtaposed with
the excesses handed to a handful of privileged
under apartheid.
When I spoke to some of the young college
students visiting the ICP that afternoon, it seems
that there’s less of a connection for them. They
have a place in their minds for Mandela as a
global figure whose position in history resonates
with that of Martin Luther King or Mahatma
Gandhi. But far more ‘millennials’ have no
reference points to anchor them to events that
took place in a far-away country at the southern
tip of Africa: here, Africa is The Lion King.
After visiting the ICP’s exhibition, I wonder if
American visitors like the students to whom
I spoke will regard those decades as one
massive peaceful protest, during which white
and black joined hands, came up with clever
slogans, made posters in the backrooms of
homes, and bravely faced police barricades
together? Will framing the experience of
apartheid as co-involvement in organised protest
create a rosier picture than is true? Without
contextualising the system of apartheid as a
continuation of segregationist colonial policies
instituted by the British as well as the Dutch well
before 1948 – without knowledge of the myriad
laws that helped create race-based segregation
long before the National Party came into power,
as well as an understanding about how the
effects of those laws are fortified by current neoliberal policies – I suspect that many visitors may
view apartheid as something that began in 1948,
and ended just as abruptly as it started in 1994.
For these voyeurs, will apartheid be just another
atrocity that happened on the Dark Continent,
something so foreign to their present that
they leave the ICP thanking God that it’s not
something that has to do with ‘us’?
I worry, also, that the South Africans expatriates
who visit this space are looking for redemption
and erasure: when they see this sort of framing
of apartheid, in which all are gathered to
protest and decry the unjust policies, will it not
re-configure the reality of the experience? Public
protests happened rarely. For most of those
five decades, people didn’t take to the streets,
but planned political action in non-spectacular
meetings and decades-long negotiations,
endured quietly so they could eke out a living
(as is evident in David Goldblatt’s images in The
Transported of KwaNdebele), or stayed in their
cushioned suburbs, braaied at pool parties,
and enjoyed the policies that gave them an
advantage (evident in Goldblatt’s In Boksburg).
Brian Wallis, the ICP’s chief curator, agrees that
the American perspective is from a distance,
though some may know more from having been
engaged in the anti-apartheid movement as
university students. For those who lived in South
Africa, however, he believes ‘this brings back
everything that they experienced; they really
understand the complexities.’ Wallis states that
even for Enwezor and Bester, the exhibition was
a challenge to organise, even though its focus is
confined to a single country, and to a particular
period in African photography. The challenges
arose because the exhibition covers some of
the most ‘visible and contested set of issues
surrounding apartheid, its institutions, and its
dismantling. In some ways, those images from
the fifty-year history of apartheid are the most
visible for the general public, [forming] their
image of African photography.’
The ICP, though not one of New York City’s
mega-museums, is cleverly set up to maximise
its space. The curators frame the exhibition via
wall-mounted tablets imprinted with lengthy text
to help contextualise the history. ‘Resistance
to apartheid was in many ways a resistance
to its laws. In the wake of these laws and the
systems contrived for their enforcement – what
may be called the bureaucratization of everyday
life – a well organized, robust resistance
movement, comprising South Africans of all
racial and ethnic backgrounds and political
beliefs, mobilized in what became an epic
battle,’ writes Enwezor on the introductory wall
panel. However, he does not claim that this is
a comprehensive history – rather, it is a ‘critical
interrogation of [apartheid’s] symbols, signs, and
representations.’ Together, they help the viewer
comprehend the ‘paradigmatic role played by
social and documentary photography’ in the
struggle against apartheid.
Inside the lobby space, next to a seated
museum guard, two television monitors play two
separate loops of film: one is black and white,
the other, colour. One features D.F. Malan’s
victory speech in 1948, after his National Party
defeated Jan Smuts’s United Party; the second
monitor features F. W. de Klerk’s speech, in
February 1990, in which he announced that all
political parties would be unbanned, and that all
political prisoners – including Nelson Mandela
– would be released. One of the voices is
celebratory, powerful, looking forward. The other
is conciliatory, explanatory, asking his listeners
to consider the denouement of their years in
absolute power. But it is the billboard-sized
image in front of the guard – behind a low wall
hiding an escalator transporting visitors down to
the basement level – that catches the visitor’s
eye: women standing side by side, holding
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FEATURES / APARTHEID IN MANHATTAN / M. NEELIKA JAYAWARDANE
Peter Magubane, Sharpeville Funeral: More than 5,000 people were at the graveyard, May 1960. Image courtesy Baileys African History Archive
vertical white signs printed with declamations
and demands, forming a neat chain around a
monumental city building.
The first photographs are images of the National
Party’s surprise 1948 victory: Malan, his wife –
her otherwise dowdy appearance downplayed
by a luxurious length of fur swathed around her
neck – attending formal functions, garden parties,
meeting foreign dignitaries, signing bilateral
agreements and opening factories. These
photographs, which document the rituals of
power that helped stage a de-historicised civility
and create an illusion of normalcy, are flanked by
sections of photographs depicting the Defiance
Campaign and the Treason Trial: Mandela staging
himself in beads and royal regalia while hiding
out from the police during his period as the
‘Black Pimpernel’; Peter Magubane’s images of
women demonstrating against pass laws; and
an unidentified photographer’s image of Peter
Magubane being arrested in December, 1956.
The section on ‘Drum Magazine and the
Black Fifties’ includes Ranjith Kally’s images
of performers at the Goodwill Lounge, Gopal
Naransamy’s Variety Concert at the Bantu Men’s
Social Centre, Bob Gosani’s photographs of a
sexy pinup (Lynette Kolati of Western Township,
Johannesburg) and countless other unidentified
photographers’ fantasies of cover girls and
jovial weekend parties. These images sit a few
steps away from Billy Monk’s documentation
of white rebels and revelry: young men and
women, in various stages of undress, meeting
in the ‘Catacombs’ for drinking and trysts,
defying Afrikaner strictures and moral codes.
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On the opposite wall: George Hallett’s iconic
photographs of District Six are juxtaposed with
Noel Watson’s images of police carrying out
evictions of black people from newly designated
‘white’ areas. There is also a small section of
images is devoted to Robert and Ethel Kennedy’s
visit to South Africa. An enormous crowd
gathered to welcome them; one banner reads,
simply, ‘HI BOB’. Those two words communicate
the sheer joy of having people of the Kennedys’
stature understand the hardships of millions in
a country an ocean away, of being connected to
them by the same exuberant desire to recognise
common human dignity.
Standing there, enjoying a moment of revelry as
I stare at that iconic image of Miriam Makeba (a
dream in her sewn-on-tight dress, straps slipping
off to reveal bare shoulders), I see, in the
periphery of my vision, a photograph of lined up,
stripped naked black miners, arms raised in the
air, awaiting medical inspection. These are Ernest
Cole’s best-known photographs: people being
fingerprinted for their passbooks, handcuffed
men arrested for being in a white area illegally,
and large signs denoting white taxi ranks, dry
cleaners, toilets, entrances for ‘Non-Europeans
and goods’, and a black woman scrubbing a
‘Whites Only’ stairway. Around the corner
from Cole’s record of the pass laws’ dark story,
‘Images of Public Protest’, documenting the
Sharpeville Massacre and the Soweto Uprising,
contains some of the exhibition’s most striking
photographs. They still have the power to make
one weep, no matter how ever-present they are
in South Africa.
Omar Badsha, Migrant worker, asleep in hostel bed which he has occupied for 25 years, Dalton Road, Durban, 1986. Image courtesy the artist
From here, an escalator leads to the lower
exhibition spaces. It is in this labyrinth
that the ICP provides the richest variety of
photographers, some whose work I’d never
come across, not even in South Africa. It is
also here that I realise that some of the iconic
images I associate only with one or two famous
photographers contain themes that were
simultaneously (or previously) photographed by
their lesser-known contemporaries: Mofokeng’s
images of mobile churches – Opening Song,
Laying of Hands, Exhortations and Overcome.
Spiritual Ecstasy resonate uncannily with
Goldblatt’s near-comatose figures in The
Transported of KwaNdebele: Mofokeng’s singing
figures, eyes sealed shut, hands uplifted and
mouths open in praise are almost transposable
with Goldblatt’s twilight travellers, calling out
to heaven to deliver them in their few hours of
deep sleep.
Chris Ledochowski’s images of ‘Katjong’ and
his ‘old time friends’ capture ordinary people,
in spare surroundings, made iconic by the
photographer’s ability to reframe them in
light. Ledochowski’s work, and Omar Badsha’s
Pensioner, Migrant Worker, and Unemployed
Worker elevate the plasterer, the bricklayer and
the man who travelled far – only to face the
absence of work – to the status of apostles.
These are stills capturing minor lives, memoirs
of people who kept watch over each other, each
witnessing the other’s day-to-day impossible
hopes. In a brief interview, I ask Omar Badsha
about photography’s connection with the
work of memoir – how both are engaged in
re-inscribing self, in re-visioning the manner in
which one sees oneself and, in the process,
transforming how others see one, too. Because
there was an intimate awareness that the
photographer was not separated from her or
his work, and that there was an imperative to
tell one’s story as one experienced it – rather
than as the apartheid state dictated it to be
– Badsha and his contemporaries’ goals and
challenges were inevitably linked with those that
surround autobiography and memoir-writing.
He emphasises: ‘How do you see or speak
to yourself without first addressing yourself
or identifying self, or without addressing the
inherent racism inside all South Africans? In
this way, photography speaks to biography. Our
work as photographers helped reframe how we
saw ourselves, especially in the 1980s.’ Long
before the Black Consciousness Movement,
Badsha and his contemporaries were aware
of the intellectual and political work in which
photographs and photographers participate.
They were not just technicians who shot and
printed what stood before them, but cultural
producers who understood the significance of
photography in re-shaping the aesthetic, sociopolitical and intellectual perceptions of their time.
‘Because we were not accepted or represented
by major galleries, we realised that our audience
is our own people. We showed it in our own
communities, in halls; the exhibitions travelled
from one community group to another. These
efforts were about having agency; we were far
from being victims.’
For some in South Africa, however, it seemed
like nothing would change. John Liebenberg’s
near-voyeuristic photographs of young white
men who went to make war on the border
between Angola and South Africa – captured as
they fired up braais, picnicked and swam in the
Cunene River within kilometres of the killing
fields – and Paul Weinberg’s photographs of
then-president P.W. Botha and his wife visiting
Soweto’s town council in 1988, leaving after
they were ceremonially granted ‘freedom of
the township’ by the mayor of Soweto. All
these images, presented in winding passages
of exhibition space, make it seem as though
life adjusted to apartheid, and that people
just carried on. But Cedric Nunn’s image of a
Valentine’s Day Ball (1986), juxtaposed with one
of a mother mourning the death of her son – a
supporter of the UDF – in what came to be
known as the ‘Natal War’, gives one an idea of
the schizophrenic experience of the 1980s in
South Africa.
But in the end, no one had the luxury of standing
still: although Gisèle Wulfsohn’s Domestic
Worker (1986) shows a be-aproned black maid
walking a dog on Lookout Beach, Plettenberg
Bay, with her ‘madam’ walking a few steps
ahead, Rashid Lombard’s photograph captures
the joyful energy of a Defiance Campaign group
taking over a ‘whites only’ beach in Blouberg
Strand in 1989. Lombard’s is one of few colour
photographs in the exhibition, and remarkable
for it: the sky is that impossible Cape Town
summer blue, trousers are rolled up against the
sand and surf, skin is glowing with the pleasure
of that day. Arm in arm, a group intended only
to walk madam’s dog on this exclusive piece of
beachfront strides purposefully up the strand.
One almost feels suffocated in the exhibition
spaces; but simultaneously, I realise that
without feeling overwhelmed, the ‘cumulative
effect of what took place in South Africa could
not be experienced otherwise’. These are
photographs of life under siege: the thrill of an
American politician’s visit, the daily indignities
and flaring violence, and the escapism provided
by drink, song, dancing and sex. Together, they
show us how ordinary life went on, despite
the restrictions of apartheid laws, and how
the massive bureaucracy infringed on these
escape artists nonetheless, illustrated in the
abandon and excesses with which each group
partied as hard as possible, coming together
so rarely and under such secrecy that it was
hardly ever captured in photographs. In staging
a photography exhibition covering some of the
darkest times in human history, leading up to
a revolution and a democratic election, the ICP
could have glorified and whitewashed. But these
coiling rooms of photographs remind us that this
was not an exhibition intended to tell simplified
stories of uncontested victories, replete with
easy villains and sanctified national heroes.
M. Neelika Jayawardane is an associate professor of English
at the State University of New York-Oswego.
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