Reporting Cape Town

Roomes, 26, died on the evening of July 17 while attempting to rescue four of his friends and himself from a lift that was stuck on the third storey of the Hip Hop Plaza apartment building on Roeland Street, in Cape Town. Roomes lost his balance while trying to climb out of the jammed lift and fell between its wall and shaft.

Roomes was later taken to Christiaan Barnard Memorial Hospital where he was pronounced dead at about 11:30 pm as a result of a skull fracture, lung injuries and fractures to his arm and leg.

It was only fitting that the sun shined a golden hue during services on Monday for Roomes, who donned a tattoo on his arm that boldly displayed the words “stay gold.” The phrase epitomized Roomes’ personality and character until the very end.

“What a wonderful character, a legend to so many people,” remarked Pastor Peter Driver as he led the funeral service.

Roomes was born on August 27, 1983 in Eversdal. Over the course of his life, Roomes proved to be a devoted son, selfless friend and the source of endless smiles.

“He was a fun-loving guy, he loved his friends, loved his family,” said his mother, Catherine Ann Roomes.

Roomes, a self-proclaimed “mommy’s boy,” and talented engineer would frequently help his mother with any technological issues that she had. His sense of humor shined through during times when he would jokingly offer to fix her computer while she made him toasted cheese.

When pressed to describe her fondest memories of Roomes, his mother was at a loss for words because there were simply “too many good things” to say about him.

As a youth, Roomes came home one day with the Sanlam Child Art World Award, which he promptly showed to his mother.

“So Mom, what have you ever done for the world?” teased Roomes while displaying his accomplishment.

“My son, I made birth to you for the world,” replied his mother with great admiration.

To everyone who knew him, Roomes was a notorious prankster, who “bombed” photos by randomly stepping in the background and cracked his co-workers up with assorted office antics.

“He brought a lot of fun to the office and that’s what we’ll miss a lot,” said Andrea Agostini, manager at Foschini Retail Group, where Roomes worked for about five years.

On one occasion, Roomes swapped the mouse of his friend and co-worker Jenny Lee Loucas with one at another desk. For several moments, Loucas frantically attempted to use her mouse only to open windows on somebody else’s computer.

“You met the true Leigh and everybody warmed up to him,” said Agostini.

Among his friends, Roomes was adored for his ability to endlessly give without asking for anything in return. He would almost always be the designated driver on a weekend night out to make sure that everybody arrived home safely – this was the case on the night that he passed away. 

“He basically lived for others. He loved everyone that he came in touch with and everyone loved him,” said long time friend, Stevan Radisic.

Grins lined the faces of Roomes’ friends after the memorial service as they recalled his passions: foosball, dancing and Xbox. He was renowned throughout his social circle for his prowess in dubstep and Counter Strike.
 
Roomes was widely known as the most responsible member in his group of friends. He would often try to convince his friends to stop smoking and refused to allow anybody to drive drunk.

“He didn’t do anything stupid. That’s why dying the way he did was such a surprise to us,” said LeRoy Veldsman, who has been close friends with Roomes for over three years.

Roomes literally wore his devotion to friends and family. As an avid tattoo enthusiast, he had one of a ship put on his chest to honor to his father, who served in the Navy. Roomes also had a tattoo of four birds that represented his sister, mother, father, and himself.

“If I just had half the characteristics of him, I would be an outstanding person myself,” said his father, Stephen Roomes.

Roomes and his father bonded over several household projects during his lifetime. Just this past month, Roomes helped his father build a security fence around their home.

“Leigh would go out of his way to help anyone and he never wanted anything back in return,” said his father “That was the reason why he climbed out of the lift to help the others.”

During one portion of Monday’s service, everybody in attendance took a moment to remember Roomes by viewing a photographic presentation of his life. As the tribute went on, the atmosphere in the room gradually transformed into one that celebrated a life lived, rather than mourning one that was lost.

And as the congregation began to uniformly smile and embrace each other, it became more apparent than ever that everyone who Roomes had touched in life would stay forever golden as a result.  

- Michael Green

He headline? "We're being held hostage by baboons."

Baboons are a bit of a problem in the cape peninsula. Just recently the Argus ran a story about anti-baboon protest in Hout Bay (article isn't online, as far as I can tell), eerily reminiscent of the Simpsons episode with the bear protest ("We're here, we're queer, we don't want any more bears!")

But these baboons are no laughing matter! Every so often a baboon kills someone, or maims someone else. 

The more common occurrence, however, is for a baboon to steal someone's food. Yesterday, I was down at Cape Point, where I witnessed a baboon come rushing out of the bushes like some monster from the Island of Dr. Moreau, and snatch a bag of potato chips out of the hands of some poor teenager, who then hurried away in what was likely a mixture of embarrassment and abject horror. In fact, the Cape Point national park employs someone, full time, to chase baboons around with a metal stick. I'm not kidding. What I really wonder is why they have a store that sells food, since that seems to be what attracts the baboons.

Many people living on the peninsula blame tourists who feed the baboons. Last week, we saw one hand a baboon a banana in order to get a good picture.

Minutes later, some other car drove up to yell at the first car who had fed the baboon. 

At any rate, feeding the baboons has encouraged the baboons to approach the side of the road like desperate hobos, hoping for a handout. They can also be quite wily- stories abound of baboons opening unlocked car doors and stealing food inside, not to mention getting into people's zippered bags and even houses. 

As ridiculous as all this sounds, it's a sort of irresistible story to write about. We're so completely dominant over our environment, especially other animals, that when a species confounds us, it leaves us feeling strangely powerless. A guy with a metal stick? Is that really the best we can do?

Well, short of shooting them... yeah.

Just one more thing about those elections: the local press gave them a collective 'meh,' a short summary of the results in every paper, remarking that it was another big win for the DA. But voter turnout ranged from 30 to 50 percent, depending on the ward. 50 percent! That's what a presidential election gets in the US. A special election for a state senate seat would be lucky to get 20 percent, I would think. Meanwhile, the press would be all over a special election, interpreting the results as a foreshadowing of the next national election. It would be all over the news, blogs and podcasts for at least a week.

In other words, the electorate is more engaged, but less informed. It could be either a cause or effect of the strong political parties in South Africa, or the result of a general apathy toward politics but an inclination to take part in community activities. 

Or they just prefer reading about baboons.

- Hillel Aron

A couple of weeks ago, a woman named Patty Diedericks had called the Cape Argus, as people often do, to tell us about a story. There was a group of people living in an informal settlement of Rietvlei - living in "the bush," as she put it, but really, it was just a sandy area with shrubs and about 35 tin shacks, roofs made of corrugated metal and plastic bags. These houses are quite common in South Africa, and one wishes there were a more dignified name for them, but unfortunately, tin shack seems to sum it up.

The good news was that these people were getting homes. For free. The bad news was that they weren't being allowed to take their pets. 

And so a reporter named Vuyo Mabandla and I wrote a story about it. And it was a good story, and it indirectly led to the people being able to take their pets after all. But it was Melkbos Village that really caught my interest.

It's been long held that you can't just give poor people things, that giving away things creates a disincentive to work hard and get ahead, and creates a subservient class living off the government tit, and so on. But in South Africa, things are just a bit different. First of all, there are a ton of people living in informal settlements with poor hygiene. Second of all, many of these people had land taken away from them by the government during apartheid. And if not their land, then opportunities. So it is the policy of the ANC, South Africa's ruling party (and outside of the Western Cape the only viable party), that people living in tin shacks should be given houses. For free. 

But houses are expensive. And besides, wouldn't giant plots of govenrment houses continue the pattern of racial and economic segregation?

Well, the government is trying something new, and that's what me and Vuyo's story ended up being about. Here's what happened.

A housing developer called Asren wanted permission to build a housing development in Melkbosstrand ("boos" is Afrikaans for bush, and all of these words are spelled about 12 different ways anyway) called Melkboos Village. The city government said fine, but you have to provide 100 units of "social housing" to poor people, and you have to pay for 2/3 of the cost. It was one of those new-fangled public / private partnerships we hear so much about.

And thus, Melkboos Village: a giant gated community made up of six smaller gated communities, each with their own suburban sounding name: two of apartments (Manatoka Heights and Coral Heights), two of houses (Aloe Close, Sagewood Close and Silver Oak Close), and one of "social houses," (Olive Close) which turn out to be these totally cute white 1 and 2 bedroom duplexes with running water (capable of producing hot water), electricity, heat, abd tiny backyards:

In other words, people who have been living in tin shacks for the last 20 years are moving into middle class suburban homes. 

When I went back to Melkbos Village, to do a follow-up story (it's not online, but it was about how the people were allowed to keep their pets after all, thanks to the heroic Cape Argus) I met a man named Johannes Erasmus, who couldn't have been more proud of his new home. In the two weeks since he and his family moved it, it had been decorated to within an inch of its life, all carpets and drapes and enough potted plants to film Jurassic Park 5. It was raining. The week before, when it had rained, his house was filled with water.

You here a factoid thrown around a lot, that South Africa is the most unequal nation in the world. But the haves and the have nots are largely separated from each other, the haves behind their gates and electrified fences and private security. And even though Olive Close is separated from Aloe close by a couple of sets of walls with barb wire, Melkbos Village will nevertheless hold within it three very distinct classes of people: homeowners, apartment renters, and people that have been either unable or unwilling to fully support themselves.

During my second trip to Melkbos Village, I noticed that the police drove through approximately once every five minutes. I was told that earlier, the police had admonished the people not to throw their trash on the ground, and not to let their children play in the middle of the street.

The new residents of Olive Close aren't used to suburban living, and no one knows exactly how they'll adjust- so far as I can tell, nothing like this has ever been tried before. Will a resident open up a shabeen (a sort of liquor store inside someone's house or garage), as they do in townships? Will they walk around the rest of Melkbos Village? Will they allow their homes to fall into disrepair?

Or will the homes change them in some way? Will it turn them into stakeholders? Will it instill in them a further sense of responsibility? 

Residents are just moving into Olive Close now, most of the homes aren't even finished. But for now, they seem happy and hopeful. One of them is Wayne Lewis, 22, who lives with his grandparents and his dog, Snooby, who he just found out he's allowed to keep. 

When I asked him what he thought of Melkbos Village, he said, "It's a good place to start a new life."

- Hillel Aron

For the second year, the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown added a hip hop component to its traditional lineup of theater, dance and music performances, exhibitions and lectures.

“It’s obvious to a certain extent ... If you offer something called a National Arts Festival it should speak to a range of people,” says Adam Haupt of the University of Cape Town’s Centre for Film and Media Studies, as well as the author of “Stealing Empire: P2P, Intellectual Property and Hip-Hop Subversion.”

“You’re validating a newer former of black Africa expression that a festival like this, on this scale, had never paid any attention to,” says Haupt, adding, though, that it’s not an exclusively black art form.

Last year, Haupt introduced hip hop to the festival and this year he organized a two-day lecture series with talks dissecting South African hip hop’s influence, relevance, identity, message and activism.

Drawing a large crowd to his talk was rapper Tumi Molekane, a poet, musician and MC who leads the group Tumi and the Volume.

In his talk title “Rappers R In Danger,” Tumi explored the issues surrounding and the limitations of being labeled a “conscious rapper,” as well as what’s often called the “burden of blackness” – the expectation that you somehow speak as the representative of all black people.

“When you take a position in your music to be socially mindful and acutely cognisant to the inequalities in your world, you are usually branded – all together now – conscious. Ordinarily, I would agree and even embrace this label, conscious just means awake.

The problem comes in when the title is used to describe what it is you can’t do as a conscious s rapper, or b-boy or DJ or even graph(ic) artist. It imposes limitations of the scope of the conscious artist’s work. You can’t do a party song, you can’t do that type of choreography … I want to be able to tell stories not from the super-cool, super-hero rapper perspective, but from the human being who goes to the park with his kid like everyone else, but who rhymes good, real good.”

Click to see the audio slideshow

— Kim Nowacki

Even with the addition of five extra days to lengthen the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown and a new attendance high mark, soccer still took main billing as venues routinely had plenty of available seating and daily attendance fell 27% from last year.

Shotgun Spratling

By Albert Sabaté

The popular theater production Sitting around the Fire appeared for the fifteenth time at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown.  The Zinosa Enterprise company featured writer and director Bheki Mkhwane, as well as Sduduzo Khawula, Bheki Khabela and Bhekani Shabalala telling the story of a meek old hobo who welcomed those forced into the streets.

The hour-long play, which won “Peak of Fringe” in Grahamstown in 1999, told the diverse stories of the hobos and how each came to meet their father-like street mentor.  Through monologues, a capella and role plays, the characters portrayed what left them on the streets.  Each took turns sharing the series of events that led them to the Durban streets and reminisced about how the old man had opened up and made them feel valued and at home.

When their voices boomed, the theater was filled and when they sang softly behind a monologue, the audience was drawn in to the personable details.

“I like the humor of the old man,” said Mkhwane.  “He’s able to welcome street kids to the fire and makes sure to tell them the good and bad things and how to survive.”

The story keeps evolving as the actors create the scenes with their Zulu and Xhosa singing, the few props and the telling facial expressions. 

“I love it because we’re sharing one kind of energy.  An energy [which is] physical and imaginative.  It balances,” he said.

The story was simple and straightforward.  What made the play compelling as a viewer were the quality of the performances and fast rhythm of the storytelling.

Sitting Around the Fire-Clip from treblalbert on Vimeo.

For me, the best part about attending the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown is to wander around town and look at people, traders and street performers. Grahamstown is a university town in the Eastern Cape with a 70 percent unemployment rate. This small town revolves around Rhodes University. I arrived on a Thursday and caught the tail end of the festival. This year the beloved arts festival was stretched out over 10 days and as a result, most venues were half full and some performances cancelled. I found my way around the fringe festival, where I spent the days watching dance, music and theater performances. Out of all the wonderful impressions I had in Grahamstown, my favorite moment came one day when I walked around the market by the cathedral and spotted a large gathering of people. The attraction: Abraham Cetywayo, a blind street-performer who plays a beat-up keyboard, stomps on a hi-hat cymbal and sings his heart out on a taped up PA system and Swiss cheese speakers. I ask a corrections officer standing next to me who this street sensation is. She tells me that Abraham, whom she saw for the first time more than 10 years ago, is from a township outside of King William’s Town in the Eastern Cape. He’s been playing his gospel songs on the streets for decades. I later ask a friend to translate the liner notes of his CD and she remembers seeing Abraham perform by a bus stop in East London several years ago.

Musically and aesthetically, I instantly fell in love with Abraham’s music. He sings in isiXhosa and his songs have titles like “the colorful,” “God have mercy on us,” and “Never give up.” Abraham’s songs sound both jovial and sad. I can hear that he likes to find beautiful moments of hope in tough times and hardships. His voice is hoarse but also filled with harmony and worship. The music is a cyclical like much of African music that I like. The melodies repeat in the usual gospel variations scheme and the songs carry on until Abraham turns of the pre-programmed beats on his keyboard. Sometimes he stands up and sways like Ray Charles. His impromptu audience cheers and claps. At his assistance, Abraham has two women who dance, sell his CDs and put any R10 or R20 bills donation in a metal box chained to his keyboard. During the half hour that I watch, they sell at least five CDs and collect more than R200 in donations.

Abraham starts out each song by adjusting the key of the song against his own vocal range using the pitch controller. His keyboard is marked up with band-aids. He starts the beat, sets the tempo and then leans over to adjust the volume on the PA system. He adds more bass. His assistants adjust his microphone and fix a loose wire on his keyboard with some tape. Once all of Abraham’s gears are in place, he begins to pound away on the keys in his choppy but irresistibly danceable style. When he plays, his two ladies pick up a tambourine, dance and sell some more CDs.The audience is dancing and more people stop by to watch. All of a sudden, one of his assistants tells him to stop playing. She grabs the microphone to announce that a boy has lost his father. The little crying boy was found next to the speaker. Maybe he heard the music and just wandered off from his daddy. The audience starts ooing and hissing in worry, but soon enough there are sighs of relief as the boy’s flustered dad comes forward. Abraham hits the beat button again and starts off where he left off — praising the Lord!

— Daniel Harju

Guy Buttery is a composer and guitarist from Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa. His unique “fingerstyle” technique has earned him acclaim throughout the local music scene. He most recently won the Standard Bank Ovation Award for “Best Music Performance” at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown.

I had the opportunity to sit down with Buttery at the National Arts Festival to discuss his musical influences, aspirations and career highlights. Here is what he had to say: http://www.vuvox.com/collage/detail/02a0231da8.

- Michael Green

Nomphelo Ndayi, a pretty 17-year-old, swayed back and forth in front of a rag-tag group of youngsters, leading them in a sweet Xhosa choral tune. Meanwhile, a few 5-year-olds on the bleachers kept time on bongo drums that they beat with vigilant fervor.

If it weren’t for the Sakhuluntu cultural group, the children who were dancing and drumming at a small amphitheater behind the political science building at Rhodes University might have been begging on street corners, drinking in taverns or otherwise idling their days away in the impoverished rural outskirts of Grahamstown.

But thanks to Sakhuluntu, the kids were a gospel choir, a percussion ensemble and a team of dancers. Very hungry dancers.

“Merran, we are out of rice and the mothers would like to know what they should cook,” asked one of the boys from the nearby town of Trappes Valley. Merran Marr is the chairperson of Sakhuluntu, which was rehearsing for a show it would perform in early July during Grahamstown’s National Arts Festival.

“Well, we have plenty of maize, can’t she make a soup or something?” Marr asked. 

***

Sakhuluntu started a decade ago when Vuyo Booi, a Trappes Valley native, started operating small arts program for youth in the one-room RDP house that was provided to him by the government. He wanted provide an alternative to the bleak township lifestyle, where high unemployment rates persist and many adults while their days away in shebeens.

“When you’re growing up in the townships, you think the things old people do are the things you have to do,” Booi said. “We want to make sure they have dreams." 

Year-round, the group offers daily workshops in drama, dance and art for children aged six to 17 in Trappes Valley and the nearby Joza township.

Three years ago, Booi brought on Marr, a trained art psychotherapist, to begin building partnerships with other South African organizations like the National Arts Festival.

For the past two years, the National Arts Festival has provided Sakhuluntu with a small grant to organize its own performance, which they call Art Factory, during the month-long showcase of South African theater, dance and music. In the first week of the festival, Marr and her staff walked the streets of Grahamstown to recruit children performing in white-face on the street for coins. They offered to feed them hot meals and give them an exposure to arts that most of them had never had.

“Once a child has had just some sense of hope ignited in them, even if they don’t have any input again after that, we hope that experience will remain within them and allow them to continue to aspire to something outside of their circumstances,” she said.

Each day, the children practiced dance routines and songs rooted in their Xhosa background, but with a contemporary twist.

“Cultural heritage is extremely important, but it often has no meaning to them in the reality of their lives,” Marr said. “So we try to teach them to make it a bit more contemporary.”

Trying to emulate the clowns and stilt-walkers they see on the streets of Grahamstown during the festival, the children smeared their faces with limestone dust they found at a local quarry.

In between spurts of bongo-drumming and gum-boot slapping, they rehearsed drama skits based on what they see daily in the townships (“A lot of drunken brawls, people staggering around and getting into fights,” Marr said).

To help with cooking, training the kids and managing the organization, Marr recruits the jobless young adults and parents from the townships.

“We’re trying to share our skills so that the organization isn’t so dependent on just a handful of people,” she said. “We’re trying to recruit youth who are just coming out of school, whose parents can’t afford to send them out for further training.”

 “It keeps you active in a physical way,” Ndayi said. “And it teaches you to be flexible. But it’s hard when the kids don’t listen.” 

This year, she also had help from two professional artists’ collectives: performance art group MixTape and Cape Town puppeteers Unima. Two days before the group’s final performance, two Unima puppeteers were helping the adult volunteers build two giant puppets – a grandfather and granddaughter - to use in a skit.

“Don’t paint the insides of the hands,” said puppeteer Daya Heller to a farm worker who was slathering an enormous paper-mache hand with brown paint. “We don’t have much brown paint left.” 

It was a testament to Sakhuluntu’s limited resources, which range from nonexistent to very minimal, in the best of times. The makeshift cooks and conductors Sakhuluntu recruits from the townships don’t work for money (there isn’t any), but simply for something positive to do. During breaks, the kids fashion costumes out of trash bags and painted cardboard boxes. 

“You teach them to make art with very little, because they have nothing,” Marr said. 

Despite their financial obstacles, Marr considers last year’s Art Factory to be a success – so much so, she said, that they nearly put themselves out of business.

Last year the children she recruited came to rehearsals consistently and formed a tight-knit group. In fact, last year’s program improved their skills so much that this year, some of them decided that instead of going to Art Factory they would stay on the streets and make money.

“It hasn’t been a consistent group,” she said. “Which has been very problematic to try to create a new show.”

“But interestingly, people have been commenting that the kids’ street performances have reached a different level this year – they’re much more innovative.”

***

The day of the performance, a small group of Sakhuluntu supporters gathered in the amphitheater to watch. Art Factory started with a poetry reading, followed by two songs and a dance routine accompanied by maracas made of Coca-Cola cans with rocks in them.

What unfolded was a surprisingly cohesive show for a group of kids with no formal arts training and only a few days of rehearsal time. There were skits of warriors rescuing princesses and animals stalking through jungles. The giant puppets made their debut, staggering toward the audience with multi-colored hands outstretched. The older kids cheered and clapped while the younger ones burst into tears, turning their heads in terror. (“They always cry, I’m not really sure why,” said Unima puppeteer Ima Meleng.)

Afterward, Booi spoke about the importance of community organizations like Sakhuluntu. 

“Each and every day in the townships, there is something going wrong,” he said. “These kids need to see life as an achievement.”

During the afternoon of July 4, at least, it certainly was.

- Olga Khazan

At this year’s National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, choreographer Dada Masilo produced a rendition of Swan Lake that captured the epic tale and placed it in a new space and time. The piece told a story of loss and desire that at once challenged and revered the classic.

This swan was one of confrontation—it challenged expectations of movement, gender roles, family and faithfulness. Masilo managed to access classical, contemporary and African techniques to produce a fusion of movement and text that created a bridge for the audience and allowed for moments of laughter, abstraction and raw emotion.

The piece played in two major parts. Tchaikovsky’s classic score broke the stage wide open. As the music swelled, each dancer crossed the stage, toe-to-heel and executed classical ballet repertoire--in bare feet, of course.   Each was clad in a quintessential white tutu. Though, the male dancers were without a bodice, it was clear that gender neutrality was a running theme throughout the piece.

The MC, Bailey Snyman quickly broke up the moment and provided a brief synopsis of the Swan Lake story, in an attempt to help those who may have come from a “cultural desert.” Ballets and dance in general are known for confusing audiences. The vast majority of newcomers to the genre often say, “I didn’t get it,” or claw for an explanation.  Masilo poked fun and did away with the confusion at once.

Snyman quickly narrated as the company of dancers performed a variety of movements filled with releves, lifts and pirouettes. He also coined the phrase “virility leaps” and highlighted the dying swan moment, which was dutifully renamed the “nobody loves me” pose.

The dance began. The large corps of dancers moved across the stage, reenacting the story of the swan on new terms. Light and lifted repertoire was replaced by swift and grounded  movements, balanced  with a combination of  the balletic extensions  and shuffles and undulations across the floor, which were more akin to contemporary and African forms.  The piece moved with the same grace  and obvious concern for techniques as the original, but with slightly sharper edges.

Once the corps was introduced,  Siegfried danced by Songezo Mcilizeli entered and was immediately overwhelmed by his parents (Bailey Snyman and Nicola Haskins) with the words “Let’s get married.” Though Siegfried tried to give flight, the company of dancers overtook him with their movement of celebration.  Clapping hands and swinging hips and Masilo’s quick footwork sealed Seigfried’s fate: he would be marrying the wrong person (Masilo).

Odile, Siegfried’s swan (Boysie Dikobe) then entered.  With one ethereal crossing of the stage on pointe,  Dikobe wowed the audience and complicated the story—this swan would be just a ethereal and intangible as the original.  Though done in a mostly light and comedic way, Masilo’s swan contradicted traditional mores of gender and sexuality in a single body.

As the story goes Siegfried found himself face to face with his bride-to-be. Masilo executed a wedding dance of sorts and linked the coy and the sensual.  In one moment, a twirl of her hips shook her tutu from side to side, much like a tail feather. In the next, she transitioned to deep contractions in her torso that reverberated from her core and reminded the audience we were watching a woman with desire.

Hers was quickly replaced by the presence of the swan. The duet between Siegfried and Odile is the only thing reminiscent of a traditional pas de deux. The ease of the movement, seemed to eliminate the so-called untraditional aspects of the scene.

The swan was revealed and Siegfried was not only exposed but confronted by the entire corps—a seeming village—with wagging fingers, audible stomping and movement that swept across the floor and kept Siegfried on the move in obvious disapproval. The dance did not merely capture unrequited love, but the expectations and disappointments that are part and parcel of living in society.

Siegfried’s day of reckoning transitioned to a duet between Masilo and Dikobe set to Arvo Part’s rendition of the score to Swan Lake.  The dancers wore long black skirts and nothing else. The vulnerability of the costuming set the scene for the “swanicide” to follow. The two appeared to find solidarity in their loss; and, as the corps of dancers entered, the lines of gender blurred and the gravity of the movement solidified.  Sequences of torso undulations passed through their limbs with sharp extensions followed by softening suspension. One by one the swans died, not quietly, but in one resounding thud to the ground.

Dada’s Swan Lake moved from the ground and the core and offered a story of loss that almost anyone could feel—cultural desert or not.  

- LeTania Kirkland

Choreographer Dada Masilo discusses her training, her process and a new approach to the Swan.