The faint scent of ourselves

We live in a quirky suburb that was established in the 1920’s on a large farm that was at first divided up into smaller fruit farms. These small farms all but disappeared by the 1950s when the suburb became popular with affluent Afrikaans families. Although not Afrikaans, both of Chantal’s parents lived in this suburb when they were at school. 

The wide tree lined streets and small-town feel attracted young professionals from a more diverse background. Today the mix of old and new stores, trendy restaurants and cafes has made the village a popular hub for residents and “out of towners” alike. 

An eclectic mix of road runners, cyclists, families, artists and groups of young adults meet for breakfast at the buffet of meal places on Saturdays and Sundays. On weekdays Moms get together after school drop off and mingle with professionals working at laptops enjoying the good coffee.  

Everything we need is in easy reach. Grocery, hardware, book and haberdashery stores sit near dry cleaners, couriers and the pharmacy. We hardly need to move out of our comfortable community for much at all. 

This leafy, lovely oasis 

Living in this leafy, lovely oasis in the midst of hard and fast Johannesburg, there are times when a mundane task, a daily chore or a pop out to the store can bring us into contact with the most interesting people. 

The chance conversation while waiting in a queue at Postnet or comparing the prices of that special cat food that Pumpkin probably will turn her nose up at anyway, can bring humour and light to an otherwise dull event. 

These chats often motivate us to do something more. They could remind us to meet up with, talk to or revisit someone or something. That is what connection does, it inspires more connection. 

A box of blueberries

A box of blueberries called to us to be collected. We popped out and picked up the blue drops of deliciousness from a smiling woman.  She was followed down her frond-covered driveway by a hop, skip and jumping boy. He wanted something or was just curious or maybe both. 

“Oh, that’s my son,” she laughed, “I have three kids, actually four with my husband.” 

We laughed with her.  Then, as we were leaving we met said husband. A larger version of hop, skip and jumping boy with a big fabric bag draped across his body and an artist’s palette in his hand. He smiled, introduced himself. 

“I’d love to connect sometime,” said Matthew.

“Sure, of course, anytime. You can come see the studio,” the husband answered and then walked off with a rolling gait to a waiting car. 

We promptly forgot about it. Several weeks later, driving back from the green grocer, Matthew spotted a figure in swirling layers walking with a rolling gait in the opposite direction. He slowed down, lowered the window and yelled a greeting. At first there was confusion, then recognition. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” 

After swapping pleasantries, Matthew said, “I must still make that time to come see you.”

“Anytime, anytime.” 

A wave and off we went our respective ways. 

A date was made for a Friday at 14h30.

We nearly did not

We nearly did not meet. The needs of children made for an unplanned longer delay and a later time. We thought best to postpone, we had other commitments to fit in. 

“Can’t you just come for ten minutes?” 

“We can do ten minutes.” 

We ended up doing two hours. 

We sat around a white dining table divided in the middle by artefacts and candles. It was weighed down on one end by piles of hard-backed journals and an assortment of books with a delicious monster poking its leaves into our conversation.

All about us hung works painted by the man with the rolling gait who sat next to the smiling woman he described as his “water”. We nursed the bottled variety and listened.

We listened to a story of a light skinned black man born to a single mother who drowned her loneliness and sorrow in alcohol and took the secret of the sperm provider to her grave. Fatherless, gangsters raised him and grounded him in rites of passage, and ways of life driven mostly by poverty and few opportunities. 

How did he become an artist? We have not found out, yet, from this man who denies that label.

“I am a healer,” he said, “I do not call myself an artist.” 

He described how he wrestles with demons, his and the world’s, and then uses his brushstrokes to reveal the dirt, the darkness, the colour and eventually the light.

“It is all love, that is all it is. Love.”

We left late

We left late, having put off our other plans, wrapped in the canvasses of this man’s world. His words  lay colourful in our ears. Juxtaposed against the crass and brittle crackling that is spat from the mouths and fingertips of stick figures of commerce and crime, capitalism and competition, the difference was stark. 

Here was a man who had found fame but wanted none of it. Here was a man who wanted to do good with his God-given ability. Here was a man who just wanted to talk through his work and be understood. Here was a man who often was not. 

In comparison, those people with their cash filled bodies and self imposed importance built on the foundations of too much, too mean and too ghastly spread so much banality and vulgarity as they grasp for his lustre and light.  

In response this healer delivers a harsh commentary through his paintings. Horrible and beautiful, revealing and revolting, and oozing his desire that those that look be healed. 

He spoke to us as if he had not spoken for a long, long time. We listened as if we had not listened forever. In the middle there was a meeting of hearts. We came together to touch each other and gently pulled away to go on with our lives, leaving a faint scent of ourselves on the other. A reminder of the contact. 

“Come again. This was good.”

Yes it was. And we will. 

Until next time.

Yours in feeling,
Chantal & Matthew

Credits for this issue — Images: Midjourney & 5th Place