The Tropics

The curators of The Tropics have made it incredibly hard to view this exhibition with an open mind. It's their labelling that presents the primary hurdle.

The Tropics refers to a cartographical designation, but in the context of an exhibition geared to probe the mythical character attached to this hemisphere or climatic area of the world it is more like a euphemism for the Other.

Of course, the term also groups all the diverse nations and cultures that fall into this geographical area into a single category. Another problematic tag that the curators are advancing is the term "pre modern" to describe the material culture of supposed tribal societies in this geographically defined belt.

This term defines these objects according to a Western master narrative of art that positions them as objects preceding modernity. Once again the term almost reads as a euphemism for "primitive".

Needless to say this grand exhibition, which includes almost 50 artworks, was not created in the southern hemisphere but by Alfons Hug, Peter Junge and Viola König, a team of Germans working at the Ethnological Museum at the Staatliche Museen za Berlin (Berlin's State Museum).

The exhibition has already shown in Brasilia, Rio de Janeiro and Berlin and, after its South African leg, will move to Bangkok. Considering the breadth of work that the exhibition encompasses - it includes many highly-prized African heritage objects from Nigeria that have not been seen in this country - it should be an exciting prospect for locals. But, regrettably, the curatorial ethos driving the exhibition undermines the art collection. It is not just the labelling employed in this exhibition that is irksome; the premise doesn't sit too well either.

The curators have dubbed their objective as the "re-aesthetisation" of the tropics. In other words, their aim is to reconfigure how the tropics are perceived by unearthing the myths that have thus far defined it and then supplanting this vision with a new more authentic one. But as the majority of the works are derived from the tropics, one can't help feeling that the Germans are repackaging African art for Africans.

Considering that the myths or imagined character of the tropics is a Western construct - which the curators do concede - wouldn't they be better off embracing a more self-reflexive approach by meditating on the elements of Western culture that have given rise to the compulsion to imagine an exotic other? A look at how the myth of the tropics had an impact on the development of German Expressionism with groups such as Die Brücke would have been a suitable alternative. Instead, they try to achieve their aim by juxtaposing "pre modern" works with contemporary pieces.

It's as if the contemporary artworks are expected to challenge entrenched notions that the "pre modern" objects have traditionally elicited.

At the same time the curators try to establish a sense of continuity between the old and the new by creating a thematic or visual link. Such as with Guy Tillim's study of the power struggles in the Congo and objects from Benin, Nigeria that denote power.

Humans' proclivity for power is a universal phenomenon and not specific to inhabitants of this geographic belt, so forging such connections between these objects feels slightly contrived if not tenuous, and obviously reinforces negative perceptions about the African continent. That Tillim is complicit in regurgitating the stereotype is also part of their curatorial approach, which seems propelled by a desire to show the manner in which inhabitants of the tropics have bought into European perceptions. While that is an issue worth probing, it divests the West of its responsibility.

As the curators astutely observe, preconceived notions about the tropics isn't just a dated phenomenon. Contemporary tourist promotions emphasise the exoticness of the tropics by parading images of sunny sultry idylls that appear untouched by progress.

However, the curators suggest such imagery belies the poverty and poor living conditions that are integral to the personality of these tropical locations.

In this way these tropical locales continued to be defined by extremes; absolute wealth and beauty and utter destitution. "Nowhere are humans closer to life, while at the same time nearer to death," posit the curators.

This is a gross oversimplification. Besides, societies that boast extreme wealth and abject poverty are not just confined to tropical locations. It's as if the countries that fall into this climatic zone continue to be defined by the same extremes that characterise their weather.

Pallo Jordan, the Minister of Arts and Culture, was eager to rubber-stamp the exhibition on its opening night. But perhaps if Jordan had paid closer attention to the curators' motivations and literature he might not have been so keen to commend them for challenging a visual arts fraternity that has been "for far too long … pale and male".

Nevertheless, the exhibition is said to be the first step towards establishing the "Humboldt-Forum", which will see non-European artists being given an opportunity to engage with products of Western culture. But, of course, this dialogue will be on the Germans terms.

Perhaps it's best to disregard the rhetoric that has accompanied this exhibition and concentrate on how the artworks engage with the theme. Candida Höfer's Zoological Gardens series, for example, shows animals from the tropics on display in Europe. In one photograph, elephants are shown feeding in an enclosed, grey concrete structure. The image refers to this insatiable curiosity about foreign destinations but also suggests that, in attempting to transpose the curiosities of these places, they automatically divest them of their intrinsic wonder.

Mandy Lee Jandrell's Bridge of Time, Palace of the Lost City, Sun City, South Africa (2003), which shows a Japanese tourist posing for a photo at that faux African architectural wonder at the Palace of the Lost City at Sun City, best articulates the manner in which people of the tropics feed the myth that places on this side of the equator are exotic and mysterious locales. On one level there is something empowering about selling this ideal to Europeans but ultimately it is self-defeating.- published in The Sunday Independent, April 19, 2009

The Elusive Dream

Staging a formidable African biennale has become the holy grail of the local art community. Since the country emerged from a cultural wilderness in the mid-90s, art organisations have set their sights on producing large-scale contemporary art events.

Their efforts, to date, have been marked by an inclination to represent the visual expression of the entire continent.

It is all part of a drive to shift not only entrenched views about African art but how the continent is perceived by the world.

Tired of being represented by the West, Africans are keen to assert their own concept of themselves, inscribing their own histories and packaging their own expression.

Ultimately, the wish is to create a large-scale art event to rival Documenta - an exhibition that takes place every five years in Kassel, Germany - or the Venice Biennales, thus shifting the art world centres to a more southerly geographical position. These impulses may be justified and necessary but, nevertheless, the ambition to stage such an event on the African continent has presented challenges of brobdingnagian proportions.

Cape Africa Platform, now staging the Cape 09 Biennale in Cape Town, entered the fray in 2007 with Cape 07, a watered down version of their initial vision. Financial woes were blamed for their failure to deliver on a promise to stage "South Africa's first ever large-scale exhibition of contemporary African art". Nevertheless, securing funding for large-scale art events is one of many hurdles, especially since the visual arts are marginalised by African governments and its citizens.

There are also ideological challenges to navigate, such as the disadvantage of presenting African expression in a single package and, in the South African context, the assumption that South African art is indicative of art making from the entire continent. In other words, is it justifiable for South Africans to assume the voice of the continent?
Despite all these obstacles, many a South African art organisation has tirelessly pursued the dream of establishing a significant art event, often and, perhaps predictably, with disappointing results.

Cape Africa Platform initially billed their large-scale event the "biennale that is not a biennale" in the hope that they could sidestep the pitfalls that beset previous endeavours - or at least to create a bit of distance between their events and those from the past. The ghosts of past come in the form of the Johannesburg Biennales. Held in 1995 and 1997, the Johannesburg Biennales perhaps brought the dream of establishing grand African art events closest within grasp.

Coming after the country's first democratic elections these gargantuan expos were compelled by a desire to reconnect with an international art community after years of cultural isolation while simultaneously providing a platform to begin exploring a post-apartheid identity.

Though they were progressive and multi-tiered in their approach, they came under criticism from the international community who continue to see art making as an unnecessary indulgence on a continent that has yet to deal with more pressing issues such as poverty, violence and political turmoil.

In an Artnet review of the second Biennale Bisi Silva, a British-based critic, writes: "(the) Biennale was haunted by questions regarding the relevance of contemporary art to the real issues of life in Johannesburg, Cape Town and the surrounding townships.

"Despite the progress of recent years, the majority of South Africans are still disenfranchised, and receive negligible benefit from cultural events like this."

Such responses have had an impact on how South Africans configure not only art events but smaller art initiatives and awards, where an outreach programme has become the norm.

Certainly, Cape Africa Platform, from the beginning, have been adamant about "bringing the art to the people" by selecting venues for their event in townships - thus engaging with a new audience and demonstrating the relevance of art to the man in the street.

Such an approach seems vital in terms of drumming up financial support from non-governmental organisations and government agencies. It is said that a third Johannesburg Biennial never got off the ground because of a lack of support from the Johannesburg City Council and the Department of Arts and Culture.

Nevertheless, as much as Cape Africa Platform have endeavoured to make their art event relevant to "the people on the ground'' they have faced an upward struggle in terms of securing financial support for their ambitious endeavour.

Though they made appeals to a number of private donors, the organisation primarily relied on the National Lottery Distribution Fund (NLDF) for the bulk of their funding. When the NLDF failed to pay out money promised to the organisation, their dream for a large-scale art event started to slip beyond their grasp.

Many believe that Cape Africa Platform's vision was far too ambitious. Not only did the organisation hope to display the works of 48 artists from South Africa and the rest of the continent - many of whom were residing abroad - but they planned on showing the artworks at more than 20 venues around Cape Town.

This grand-scale art fiesta, dubbed TRANS CAPE, was expected to start in September 2006. But, a month prior to the event, the organisers announced it would be delayed until March 2007. Financial woes were blamed for the delay but soon after there was some reshuffling within the upper echelons of the organisation with Susan Glanville-Zini and Zane Ibrahim stepping down as CEO and director respectively. The implication was that the organisation's inability to stage the event on time could also be attributed to erroneous planning.

Mirjam Asmal-Dik was appointed the organisation's new chief executive officer but, even with her at the helm, the first biennale failed to live up to the expectations the organisation had set. When Cape 07 was eventually staged it was significantly smaller, showing at only seven venues around the city - instead of at 24 venues as originally envisaged.

Concerned that his integrity might be compromised, the biennale's curator, Gavin Jantjes, jumped ship. Unable to afford the shipping costs necessary to transport the bulk of the artworks from the 48 artists who were due to participate, Cape Africa Platform appealed to artists to attend the exhibition in person instead.

"We have asked them to try to bring their artworks with them in their suitcases and to keep an open mind,"said Asmal-Dik in an interview with The Sunday Independent at the time of the show.

The situation was desperate and, with participating artists eventually left to foot the bills for their flights and costs, many felt that the biennale should not have gone ahead.

It seemed as if the organisation was living up to its slogan - "the biennale that is not a biennale". Asmal-Dik was adamant that the event should be staged, in whatever form.

"We have to push it through. Private sponsors are watching us; they have made it clear to us that they want to see it happen if they are going to invest in it in the future," she told The Sunday Independent.

More recently, Artlogic's Ross Douglas has, too, been chasing this holy grail of art exhibitions, implying that the Joburg Art Fair could in some way function as an alternative to a biennale.

Like his predecessors Douglas, too, has hoped to create "a world-class" African event that will capture the attention of the international art community. Believing the art fairs to be a more economically sustainable event, Douglas implied they would have better staying power.

But with their commercial slant and superficial intellectual framing, Douglas's fairs don't measure up to the concept of a biennale. So while his ventures may be financially sustainable, they provide little intellectual nourishment, rendering the dream of a grand-scale art event ever more illusive.

Cape 09 could herald a new era. Cape Africa Platform have significantly reconsidered not only their initial vision but the form a biennale in South Africa should take. Though they have initiated discussions with other African art communities across the border in Maputo and Luanda through their Sessions programme, they are no longer looking to position the biennale as an affair that embraces expression from the entire continent.

"We are going to let our relationship with artists from other countries develop naturally and slowly," said Asmal-Dik.

This ideological shift has had positive practical spin-offs: instead of spending the bulk of their budget on flying in art from around the world and continent, they are able to channel it into initiatives that will have a tangible and sustained impact on South African society.

The Young Curators Programme is one such scheme, which aims to develop young curators. These young talents will also be involved in curating exhibitions for the biennale, thus creating events that will directly address the youth.

With the funding in place this time round - mostly from international donors - the organisation might well have a chance of succeeding.

Their victory might also be down to a shift in Cape Africa Platform's priorities: no longer are they looking to tailor-make an event designed to appeal to an international audience or to make a statement about Africa to the world - their emphasis is on the youth.

"Our objective now is to create a new generation of artists and curators. It's all about the youth, showing them that art can be a part of their lives," said Asmal-Dik. - published in The Sunday Independent, May 24, 2009

Zander Blom at Gavin Rooke

Zander Blom is scornful of the dated imperative to create art that is new, original. It’s a theme that underpinned his last solo exhibition, The Drain Of Progress, which mapped a journey to rediscover or relive pivotal moments in the modernist movement when new visual idioms were created.With this exhibition, he is caught up in a similar trajectory, however, this time it is the physical and psychological journey towards unearthing a new visual syntax that forms the focus.It’s the voyage of the European Primitivist who believes that the key to unlocking the inner creative voice requires reconnecting with a primitive society that is unfettered or untainted by the evils of the civilised world.This brings to mind the likes of Pablo Picasso and his contemporaries, but the actual physical journey that Blom recreates more closely mirrors the life story of Paul Gauguin, the French artist who turned his back on a profitable career as a stockbroker and on “civilisation”, resettling in exotic locales such as Tahiti and Polynesia, where he created his iconic oeuvre.

It’s probably the last and final scene of the narrative, where the central protagonist is said to have died from syphillis – among a host of other diseases – which recalls the figure of Gauguin and his own bitter demise in so-called paradise. But ultimately Blom is alluding to a mindset.What Blom presents is a caricature of the voyage of self discovery, which is compelled by this belief that in a different environment the authentic creative self manifests.But this is not a conventional parody; while Blom documents the experience of an individual, there is no individual present in his works. His photographs simply feature a collection of musical instruments that are placed in front of changing backdrops that conjure stylised island settings.In this way Blom not only alludes to a Primitivist compulsion but to a narrative that is deeply embedded in contemporary society: the story of the wannabe rock band and their search for fame and fortune. It’s as if the frameworks of two narratives from different epochs have been thoughtfully overlaid to form a postmodern palimpsest.

Naturally the journey that an aspirant rock band would follow would be a journey in the opposite direction to the primitivist, moving from the periphery to the centre, the locus of civilisation where they would bide their time while waiting to be discovered by some head honcho in the music industry.This makes the parallel between the two feel contrived, but it is the friction between these two motifs that enables Blom to destabilise the crucial elements that delineates them. The quintessential tale of the great artist – genius is inextricably centred on elevating the stature of the individual, casting him (it’s mostly a him) as the avatar of creativity and inventiveness.However, by removing the individual from the narrative and employing musical instruments alluding to a band, a creative collective, the tale is not subverted but distorted.Similarly the narrative of the wannabe rock band cannot be realised if it is played out on an isolated island peopled by supposed primitives.At their core, though, the aspiring musicians and artist-genius are both connected to the cult of celebrity and the desire to startle the world with their curious reinventions. Blom’s art suggests that this is a false ambition. He achieves this by displaying the narrative like an amateurish theatrical stage set with rudimentary visual cues, referring to a constructed reality.Furthermore, each of these candy- coloured mise-en-scènes are painted on the walls of a room; in other words, the journey is imagined. For many early modernist painters the journey into the culture of the other was just that – an invented intellectual expedition accelerated by contact with art objects of the other. For those like Gauguin who actually made the physical journey, his bitter denouement serves as a caveat: immersing oneself in the culture of the other comes with the risk of being infected by their supposed primitive sexual excesses.Employing bright, trendy colours and stylised motifs Blom has created a sort of pop version of the artist-genius narrative and in so doing he not only expresses its triteness but he undercuts the core values of high art.He also reflects on a contemporary society where everyone has been enabled through the proliferation of digital media and reality TV to envision themselves as the inventive, artistic hero.The irony is, however, that while Blom tackles clichéd themes, his approach is actually fresh.He has, after all, recast painting as a temporary art product that only survives in the form of a photograph. It’s a clever twist.The cynicism that infused Drain of Progress is still present albeit couched in satire.One can’t help feeling that this exhibition isn’t as visually or intellectually sophisticated as his first solo, but given that Blom’s goals with this exhibition differ, it is not unexpected. One only wishes that his photographs were larger, relaying the overall impact of his paintings more faithfully. Nevertheless this exhibition confirms that Blom is one of the most promising talents on the South African art scene.

Self/Not Self: Brodie/Stevenson Gallery

From Pieter Hugo's penetrating and clinical brand of photography, to Nandipha Mntambo's animal skin and hoof sculpture, to Zanele Muholi's unsettling photography that ventures to reveal what few deign to see, this group exhibition encompasses a diverse range and modes of expression, which all articulate the Self/Not-Self theme in interesting and unexpected ways.

However, it is not Muholi's graphic photos of a woman having her period that creates waves; it is the George Pemba Self Portrait (1987) that creates a frisson of excitement. Placing this dated painting in the context of a cutting-edge group show frees Pemba's art from the limited curatorial discourses that have framed his art for decades.

Pemba's art and that of his generation of artists - dubbed "the pioneers" for their annexation of conventional western art-making techniques - have, until recently, always been exhibited under the rubric of "black modern painters".

In fact, even as recently as last year at Joburg's inaugural art fair, Pemba's art was displayed under this narrow tag in the curated show Take Your Road & Travel Along: The Advent of the Black Modern Painter. Since 1985, when Ricky Burnett staged Tributaries, there have been a number of well-intended efforts to elevate the art of marginalised artists.

However, more often than not, their art is never viewed on its own terms but rather in the context of a "neglected other". In this exhibition, which mostly consists of contemporary art, the Pemba portrait is viewed independently from black modern art, permitting one to view it as a product of Pemba the artist rather than an artefact of a historical period.

Of course, juxtaposed with contemporary artworks, Pemba's portrait becomes emblematic of an outmoded art-making ethos, especially in terms of self-portraiture. Back in Pemba's time self-portraiture was not a point of entry into discourses on difference, race, gender and authorship as it is in the postmodern world.

For artists of Pemba's period the genre was employed to assert the persona of the artist, allowing the artist's psychological ticks to be probed. During the modernist period there was more curiosity about the personality of the artist, and self-portraiture allowed this interest to manifest in an obvious manner.

One senses Pemba is also interested in the formal challenge; capturing his likeness in an inventive way. Certainly not many self-portraits show the artist at work as Pemba's does. Here Pemba is a live subject, which enables him to critically observe himself in the act of painting. Not only does he reflect on his "seeing" eye, but the aspect of himself that comes to life during the painting process.

In contrast to Pemba's expressive representation of himself is Tracy Payne's and Pieter Hugo's very life-like and dry renderings of themselves. Payne's image appears more like a commercial art product than a fine art one, which was no doubt her intention.

The self-portraiture genre is, after all, an overused and trite genus of art.

Payne's artwork underscores this reality while suggesting that it doesn't offer any insight into the subject, that it functions as an empty illusion of self. As such one doesn't feel as if Payne is personally invested in her portrait. Her features are there but she is absent.

Hugo, whose work has always been dogged by the politics of representation, is liberated from that debate by assuming both the author and subject roles. Nevertheless, in his triptych his likeness doesn't appear to be safe from manipulation; his hair and ears take on a slightly different appearance in each photograph. Digital photography has undoubtedly destabilised the notion that photography truthfully records and Hugo exploits this fact, leaving his viewers wondering which Hugo is authentic.

For women, representing the self can often be a politically loaded act.

Berni Searle denies her presence in her series Once Removed (2008) by covering her face with a white cloth. Withdrawing or removing herself from the process is empowering while at the same time indicative of the way women are viewed by society as vacant vessels without a character of their own.

Muholi also obscures the identity of her subject by cropping out her face. Nevertheless the viewer shares a rare intimacy; a woman having her period. Blood is seen running from her naked body into a bath. In this way her subject is governed by her biological or physical self.

Lerato Shadi's performance, Fragile, on opening night, added another dimension to the exhibition. Covering herself in masking tape Shadi looked like a bandaged patient undergoing a painful physical alteration - a dramatic transformation of self. Her performance also read like a denial of self; in covering almost every iota of her body in the beige tape she almost erased her physical presence.

As Shadi tried to fight her way out from the sticky mess enveloped around her body, it became clear that the act of reclaiming the self is a painful process. - Published in The Sunday Independent, March 08, 2009

Brett Murray at the Goodman

It’s a rare occasion but, every so often, an artist or cultural producer creates a product that taps into the prevailing Zeitgeist with such accuracy – unearthing the underbelly of present-day conditions with such precision – that it makes one’s skin tingle and crawl. Recently, a number of artists have sought to represent the current sociopolitical conditions in the country but this exhibition is remarkable in that Murray’s expression is so succinct.
He employs the shorthand of the political cartoonist, but he is more inventive, drawing from a broader lexicon, which stretches back into art’s canon, and eventually establishing iconography of his own making. That is not to say that his art is coded and requires an astute observer to unravel his statements.
Murray’s expression is unambiguous, confrontational and vitriolic. If Pieter-Dirk Uys or Mike van Graan were visual artists, this is the kind of art they would be making – a sharp brand that cuts through duplicitous political posturing like a hot knife through butter.
It is political satire translated into imagery. And, as is the case with this genre of expression, there is a crudeness to it, although it is not crude in its execution – Murray’s art is the embodiment of technically and ideologically polished expression. It is crude in that Murray doesn’t shy away from ugly truths.
The debased actions and greedy materialism of the new political and social elite are expressed through works dripping with faux gold and the reoccurring motif of copulating dogs.
He presents a sort of hyper-reality in which the moral character of the ruling party (or the whites who remain powerful) are presented in a concentrated form – Murray doesn’t rely on hyperbole.
Some of his work probably appears offensive, but the humour he employs destabilises the sincerity of his accusations. Besides, the conditions that Murray represents are unpalatable and depraved – the democratic era has ushered in another form of corrupt governance.
Copulation proves a succinct metaphor for this state of affairs. It is not depicted as an erotic act but as a frantic animalistic act that is driven by base impulses. Showing it taking place between dogs – well-coiffed poodles at that – also underpins the act as one enacted in the public realm. The copulating dogs motif, therefore, comes to represent a range of illicit political shenanigans. It also subtly references white ascendancy. In a tongue-in-cheek declaration engraved on a shiny gold plaque, Murray dedicates his exhibition to the victors of Polokwane but, like the irreverent
court jester, his art serves to reveal the duplicitous nature of his “patron”.
It is not an imbalance of power that Murray addresses – as has been customary
with art in the post-apartheid era. His focus is the flagrant misuse of influence.
This is personified by his references to Marie Antoinette and Louis XIV, the French royals who lived a life of excess while nonchalantly neglecting their impoverished subjects.
Let Them Eat Pap (2008) cements this analogy between the French aristocracy and the ruling party. It is the motif of a supposedly remorseful Marie Antoinette pictured shedding tears that embodies a false parade of repentance. The ruling party’s repeated apologies for corruption and inefficiency, the remorse of the old apartheid fiends such as Adrian Vlok and exploitative white madams all come to mind. The tears that flow from Marie Antoinette are stylised, thus inferring premeditation.
Murray translates this motif into lithographs and steel sculptures, or should one say, frames, because that is what his sculptures are – one-dimensional skeletons of human effigies. In this way, he not only shows the Marie Antoinette persona to be vacuous but all the gestures of remorse to be empty.
Showing remorse for past misdeeds has become a staple part of South African culture. Murray proposes that its ubiquity has divested the sentiment of any import.
The Antoinette effigy could represent either the current ruling power or the previous white authority, forging a connection between the past and the present and a link in leadership style.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow – lessons in corrupt governance have been passed on to a new generation of leaders. A stainless steel phrase that reads “To own or storm the Bastille?” articulates this connection between the old and the new order. Similarly, the ironically titled Change: Pre-Polokwane,Polokwane, Post-Polokwane (2008), which features three identical 18thcentury paintings of a group of inebriated men feasting, defies the notion that transformation is automatic.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely is the maxim that Murray embraces.
Most of Murray’s work appears to be droll one-liners offering naive perspectives, but that is the point of his art – he is concerned with surface appearances.
He is fascinated by mediated realities – the world of façades and images, signs and symbols that the mass media purveys. After all, for most, the realm of politics is a remote and mediated actuality, an imagined sphere.

Kurgan at AOP

Around this time of year the mass media pays a lot of attention to notions attached to "love". Much superficial mining of the designation ensues but so rarely is the complexity and transience of this emotion that holds such sway in our lives probed in any meaningful way.

Terry Kurgan doesn't delve into romantic love with this exhibition but rather explores a more multifaceted derivative that is shared between parents and children. Ultimately, what she offers are more than glib observations. Her evocative and haunting portraits deliver uncomfortable but incisive insights into the dynamics between children and their parents and the shifting boundaries that characterise these relationships.

But in characteristic Kurgan fashion, this theme also serves as the point of entry into a wider discourse that examines the photographic medium and the impulses that drive it.

Perhaps this is best illustrated by a triptych of sepia photographs dryly titled Untitled 12, 13 and 14 (1999 -2005). They feature a young boy taking a bath. He is relaxed and at ease and quite clearly comfortable sharing this intimacy with the author of the image - presumably Kurgan, his mother.

This series recalls Natasha Christopher's Bath (2003) - created for the Everard Read Art Award in 2005 - which also featured her son taking a bath. Christopher chose to blur her photograph almost beyond recognition in an effort to underpin her avid desire for an intimacy that could not be made tangible.

For Kurgan this scenario is also a test of closeness. The boy in her photographs is obviously old enough to bath himself and does not necessarily need an adult in attendance, though concerns for his safety might still prevail. Therefore, the observer/photographer's presence is required if only to monitor him. These images consequently encapsulate the beginning of a loosening of a close bond. The boy is starting to revel in his independence from the parent. This reality manifests most prominently in an image in which he is pictured with his head under the water. For the author/mother, her attendance signifies a surrendering of control.

But despite this shift in their relationship they are still able to share the intimacy that bathing intrinsically entails. The boy is not ashamed of his nakedness; in fact, he seems to display it in front his mother quite unselfconsciously.

Photographing this scene obviously pushes this relationship to its limits, because it concretises the event, it makes the nature of their affiliation public. It also tests Kurgan's restrain, for the act of photographing places her outside of herself and the relationship and she becomes the impassive observer rather than the watchful mother - albeit that the two roles translate into a close scrutiny of the subject.

This is the irony of the medium; though it is most often in its daily use employed to capture shared intimacies, the act of photographing immediately creates a chasm between the subject and the author.

Having photographed children throughout her career, Kurgan has discovered that up until a certain age children aren't aware of being the subject in photographs. This allows for a more penetrative or unedited view of these subjects. They grant access to facets of themselves that they would withhold if they were more conscious of the character of photography.

This is evidenced in the triptych of the boy in the bath; he is able to share this intimate moment because he is not yet aware that he has become the object of a premeditated brand of observation. It is this type of naivety and innocence that Kurgan is fascinated by: a kind of semi-consciousness in which the child performs for the adult because the child has seen the performance before but doesn't grasp the gravity of the performance.

This dynamic is embodied in the title of the exhibition, which articulates a commitment to love without an understanding of the significance of the pledge that the promise to love is intrinsically unconditional.

A dark and macabre undertone unites the work on this exhibition, simply because Kurgan makes us conscious of the manner in which children make themselves emotionally available to adults, leaving themselves open to an inexplicit form of abuse but one that naturally occurs between parents and children.

Much of the exhibition comprises etchings of photographs that Kurgan has exhibited before such as It's a Secret (2009), which was part of her Scene of a Crime series (2005).

Revisiting or reworking these photographs in another medium suggests that the artist is eager to penetrate beyond the surface, that she is compelled by a desire to uncover the "unseen" subtext that lies buried beneath the glossy veneer of the photographed image.

Her unearthing, however, doesn't produce the desired results; most of the etchings are bland, detached and inexpressive renderings that fail to evoke any nuanced insight into the subjects. If anything, what Kurgan presents are bare skeletons of young people. They are haunting figures that are ghostly in their appearance with their dark- rimmed eyes, empty expressions and limp bodies. Kurgan implies that there is nothing beyond the surface of the photographic image, that they simply give the illusion of depth.

Interview with Johannes Phokela

'Eating people isn't always wrong," reads the title of a newspaper article Johannes Phokela has clutched in his hand as we stand in front of South Pacific Seascape.

Complementing this story on cannibalism is a dated drawing of a half-naked African with a white colonial in his grip. In his usual satirical take on politically loaded topics, Phokela has scrawled across the image "exotic snack" in black koki pen, thereby inverting the stereotypical view of the African as exotic.

Phokela has replicated the image in South Pacific Seascape. It's two weeks before the opening of his largest major solo exhibition in South Africa and he hasn't finished painting it yet, so it won't be on show. But it is a rare opportunity not only to compare the artist's source of inspiration with the final product but also to see how Phokela constructs his art. In true Phokela style, he has included a number of other motifs in the image - such as an oil rig and a ship - which will add other layers of meaning to his painting.

Like much of his art, South Pacific Seascape references the colonial condition, its attending ideologies and how embedded they are in popular culture.

"Even today, there is no evidence that anyone devoured human flesh. It never existed. And let us not forget what has happened in Europe; they beheaded people. This article talks of how it was so wrong that people were perceived as cannabilists [sic]. I don't think you could ascribe any meaning to the eating of flesh," says Phokela, his eyes flicking between the image in his hand and his painting.

Much like a satirist looking for material, Phokela consumes political and cultural imagery and iconography from a variety of sources and, though he replicates these signs and symbols, he places them within reconfigured contexts that destabilise their meaning. It's always a subtle subversion, one that can only be gleaned from a close study of his paintings and the art canon - said to be his favourite source. Up until now, local art critics have associated his aesthetic with the traditional Dutch genre of painting, but it's a characteristic he eschews. "[My sources] melt into the work and people don't often realise it. Generally, I am quite interested in all iconography and symbols. But when people give you a label, you are seen as that," he says bitterly.

He characterises his approach as "creating a pastiche out of existing images. I recycle existing material to come up with something new. Say I see the image of The Thinking Man. I look at that and think that it could be of Thabo Mbeki. I am like a cartoonist in the way that I conceptualise; they use iconography that we are all familiar with and I work on the same level except I go a bit deeper and try and involve other elements. I like to put lots of conflicting elements in my work so that it is not assigned a specific meaning; that anyone can read whatever they want to read into it."

In his studio, images cut from newspapers, magazines or books are sticky-taped adjacent to paintings, and open books lie scattered on the floor. For Phokela's expression to have impact, the iconography he mimics must be faithfully represented. His modest two-roomed studio in Milpark, Johannesburg, is chock-a-block with paintings in different stages of completion. Phokela likes to work on a variety of paintings simultaneously.

He doesn't reveal much about his process, but I sense that it is not a case of fluctuating bouts of inspiration that see him flitting between his creations. When he goes into an in-depth description of an installation piece - Dream Home - describing every detail of its construction down to the lighting, it becomes clear that he is a methodical creative thinker buoyed by concepts rather than visceral or emotional compulsions.

Painting is no longer revered as the sole conduit of supposed high art. But it is hard not to feel a frisson of excitement when faced with a studio brimming with Phokela's characteristic large-scale paintings. It is in such moments that one intrinsically recognises that installations or photographic artworks simply lack the visual and sensual impact that painting evokes.

Phokela is well aware of the medium's intrinsic power, especially the traditional representational mode of painting that reflects reality like a mirror - albeit distorted. But it is those distortions that Phokela is most interested in; he likes to dig deep into art's canon, regurgitating them for the contemporary viewer. Ironically, in the process of ridiculing the tradition of Western painting, Phokela has become an accomplished painter in his own right.

But Phokela doesn't fit the archetypal painter mould. For starters, he doesn't consider himself a painter. His exhibition, wryly titled I Love My Neighbours, will boast a number of sculptures and he is anxious to get stuck into Dream Home. "I don't see those works as a departure from what I have done. I am still doing what I have always done, which is dealing with iconography. It's been a natural progression."

Phokela resists any kind of typecasting. He desists from recalling his past, filling out the bare bones of his extensive CV. Is he the epitome of the postmodernist artist who doesn't want the meaning of his work to be deflected by his context or doesn't he want the story of his life to be presented as the Soweto boy makes good?

Many have found it tricky to resist casting him in the latter mould. For someone born in Soweto in the 1960s to have gone on to study at the world's most prestigious art institutions - the Royal College of Art, Camberwell College of Art and St Martin's College of Art - is an achievement. Not only did Phokela receive a first-rate education at these institutions, he also rubbed shoulders with the Young British Artist set, or YBAs as they are more informally called, which included Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin, Michael Wallinger and Rachel Whiteread.

"People keep asking me about my background and childhood as if I finished school yesterday. A lot has happened since I left school." A surprising amount has happened to Phokela since he left Soweto; he has become a well-respected international artist who flits between South Africa and London, where he has lived on and off over the past 20 years. He has also built a career on avoiding being typecast; a feat that any artist from Africa values. Initially, Phokela battled with preconceived ideas about African artists.

"I remember arriving in London and being questioned about African art. No one ever stops a European artist and asks them to define European art."

Phokela's retort was to usurp the Western tradition of painting. It was not so much about subverting the canon but the attitudes about African art and artists - African artists aren't expected to be painters; painting has always been the preserve of European high art. "It wasn't about proving anything, it was about saying: 'Fuck you, I am going to do what I want'.

"Back in the Eighties, there was this idea that African art was supposed to be this way and European art is supposed to be that way. I tried to combine what I then perceived to be authentically contemporary African art at the time. But I constantly felt impeded by the directness of questions about the significance of my work.

"My white peers were always asking these exotic questions, like: 'Do you have lions in Joburg?' My black peers were also debating what I was doing. Painting white naked ladies isn't African art. They felt like I was betraying my culture. African art did not end with the [wooden] mask; we have to move beyond that."

Attitudes around African art have shifted, but Phokela is still determined not to be classified by his geographical origins, which has seen him resist participating in contemporary African themed shows. "I just don't want to be labelled as an African artist. I hate it when people refer to me as being a black South African artist."

It's hard to reconcile Phokela's appearance and demeanour with his defiant nature; he is a softly spoken, petit man whose youthful face camouflages his forty something age - the grey flecks in his hair are the giveaway.

But belying this unassuming faade is a subversive artist with a very dark sense of humour. It is embedded in his art, in the manner in which he subverts familiar images, such as portraying a Rubanesque female nude with a G-string tan-line.

"Artists see beyond what everybody sees. I am trying to create a language independent from objective rhetoric. One of the reasons I am using iconic images is that people easily recognise these things and it helps them to engage and start asking questions.

"Let's talk of the most popular images, say of Jesus Christ. He is usually depicted with blond hair and rosy cheeks when, in fact, he was Jewish, Middle Eastern, with dark hair. Not even the Bible describes Jesus as having blond hair. Iconography can change the meaning of things in a very sublime way."

Phokela says his brand of subversion is simply a means to an end. "If I use Rembrandt, I am not paying homage to him, it is just an end. I am more into the music than the artist. I don't think we should build shrines around artists. I am taking a different path. I am strictly into the image. If I see a dustpan and a brush, I try to go beyond [its physical appearance]. I go deeper. I want to stretch the possibility of meaning of objects."

· I Love My Neighbours will be showing at the Standard Bank Gallery in Johannesburg until March 21