Cat Walk to New York - David Tlale's World

Weaving harmony into contrast
By Howard Drakes

A lone bookshelf stands square against a corner in a large, flowing room. On one shelf are books and magazines at rest. A bright yellow one stands out, urging you to notice it; Vogue Italia, the Barbie Issue.

Framed on both sides by books of a very different nature, it is held, almost cradled, as if being shown to the world. To its left a navy blue New King James Version Bible and on the right a pitch black Spiritual Renewal Bible, in paradox, its gentle keepers.

Across the room the game continues. The glossy spines of 20^th Century Fashion and New New York Interiors sitting pout amongst African Kings and the Voices of the San, undisturbed by the seeming contradiction.

Contrast is at its starkest when it wears a human form. At its deepest when it weaves itself into the tapestry that is human social spaces. It is most dynamic when, beyond showing us things seemingly apart, it pulls them together, mixing oil and water.

This is the place where clothes are given life. Pins and needles, scissors and sowing machines, all tearing limp pieces of material apart, rearranging, before putting life back into them; endless combinations of colours, textures and shapes.

 

Harmony in Contrast - A fashion designer's world

To view got to: http://multimedia.timeslive.co.za/photos/2009/09/designer-david-tlale/

Field of Dreams - Prisoner's Confederations Cup

To veiw go to: http://multimedia.timeslive.co.za/photos/2009/06/field-of-dreams/

Field of Dreams: Prisoner's Confederations Cup

The echo comes, reverberating from deep inside. It crashes against thick walls and cold bars as it tries to find its way outside. Deep masculine voices sound as one. Feet stamp down the tune in rhythmic cadence, move as one. Into the earth their message goes, a warning to those they are to face in battle.

“We live together, we die together, a dead man is a dead man. We live together, we die together, a dead man is a dead man.”

They move out of the dark, into the light, away from the solid brick and mortar, past rows of jagged wire, electrified barbs, watching guards, into a tunnel of mesh confinement. The makeshift Egyptian flag held up for the other teams to see.

The drone of a big bus engine is not enough to put them off as it swallows them up. Hands and feet strike roof and floor. The singing continues as they are ferried off, off to the field of dreams.

 

The Having And The Taking

The street, alive with activity, is particularly busy outside of the supermarket. Small, blackened feet pace back and forward. Faces caked with dried snot bombard the potentially charitable with puffed up, pathetic pleas.


A dirty body in dirty clothes.


“Please sir, check money for bread?”


“I don’t have anything,” comes the stony reply.


Laden arms weigh down on feet attempting to negotiate the onslaught. Get to the car, to safety. Bulging bags of designer food and overpriced beauty products, luxuries, are deposited and then quickly shuttled away. Nothing is lost to those outstretched, expectant arms.

…


It is late and the suburban streets are dark, still. Shadows move with intent. Silence is broken, shattering glass. A car alarm wails. Its owner wakes, brings him to the window. Four little bodies, with loaded arms, scatter into the night. One stops, turns and looks up to the familiar face inside and, for a second, they share in another of life’s little ironies; prisoners of circumstance.

Predator

Eyes meet in what seems to be a mutual exchange of attraction. He smiles suggestively at her, her eyes are quick to pull away. “A gesture of shy interest,” he tells himself, “I know she wants me”. He fixes his gaze wondering when her resolve will break, forcing her to look again. In time she manages a fleeting glance. This time her expression seems to wear a look of discomfort. “What’s that all about” he thinks, “she is overwhelmed by my awesome presence? Must be.”

He pursues her, eyes as the hunter, refusing to let her out of his sight. “She enjoys the chase,” he says, “she needs to know that she is worthy game”. He positions himself suggestively so that she will see that his interest is her. Each time their eyes meet she looks more concerned, her body shifts uneasily as she tries to escape, yet she cannot shake off his visual advances.

All this only fuels his fire, he wants her to know he is fighting for her, that when he takes physical possession of her she will feel that she has indeed been won. She can bear it no more, her space has been invaded and her only choice is to leave. He has stolen something from her and she feels powerless in this place. Before he knows it she has gone. “Women are so fickle,” he mumbles in disbelief, “they play like they want you and then they just run!”