The Way I See It

Jϋrgen Schadeberg

Description

Many of the photographs are as familiar as they are iconic: Nelson Mandela gazing through the bars of his prison cell on Robben Island; a young Miriam Makeba smiling and dancing; Hugh Masekela as a schoolboy receiving the gift of a trumpet from Louis Armstrong; Henry ‘Mr Drum’ Nxumalo; the Women’s March of 1955; the Sophiatown removals; the funeral of the Sharpeville massacre victims …
Photographer Jürgen Schadeberg was the man behind the camera, recording history as it unfolded in apartheid South Africa, but his personal story is no less extraordinary. His empathy for the displaced, the persecuted and the marginalised was already deeply rooted by the time he came to South Africa from Germany in 1950 and began taking pictures for the fledgling Drum magazine. In this powerfully evocative memoir of an international, award-winning career spanning over 50 years – in Europe, Africa and the United States – this behind-the-scenes journey with a legendary photojournalist and visual storyteller is a rare and special privilege.
Schadeberg’s first-hand experiences as a child in Berlin during the Second World War, where he witnessed the devastating effect of the repressive Nazi regime, and felt the full wrath of the Allied Forces’ relentless bombing of the city, are vividly told. The only child of an actress, who left her son largely to his own devices, Jürgen became skilled at living by his wits, and developed a resourcefulness that held him in good stead throughout his life. At the end of the war, his mother married a British officer and emigrated to South Africa, leaving Jürgen behind in a devastated Germany to fend for himself. With some luck and a great deal of perseverance, he was able to pursue his interest in photography in Hamburg, undergoing training as an unpaid ‘photographic volunteer’ at a press agency, then graduating to taking photos at football matches.
After two years there, Jürgen made the decision to travel to South Africa. He arrived at Johannesburg train station on a cold winter’s morning. He had a piece of paper with his mother’s address on it, his worldly possessions in a small, cheap suitcase on the platform beside him, and his Leica camera, as always, around his neck.

Sujets

• Business Aspects
• Photography

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781770105300
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Way I See It


JÜRGEN SCHADEBERG
The Way I See It
A MEMOIR
PICADOR AFRICA


I dedicate this book to the memory of the late Henry Nxumalo – a great and courageous journalist with whom I was privileged to work.


While all attempts have been made to verify information provided in this book, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, inaccuracies or omissions. Any slights of people or organisations are unintentional and should not be construed as deliberate.
First published in 2017 by Picador Africa
an imprint of Pan Macmillan South Africa
Private Bag X19, Northlands
Johannesburg, 2116
www.panmacmillan.co.za
ISBN 978-1-77010-529-4
EBOOK ISBN 978-1-77010-530-0
Text and photographs © 2017 Jürgen Schadeberg
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Editing by Alison Lowry
Proofreading by Russell Martin
Cover design by publicide
Front cover photograph of Jürgen Schadeberg (Hamburg, 1948) by Helmut Prignitz
All photographs are supplied courtesy of Jürgen Schadeberg


CONTENTS
Germany 1941–1950
1 Slow Descent into Hell
2 Surviving the Apocalypse
3 Amidst the Ashes
4 Hamburg
South Africa in Black and White
5 ‘Europeans Only’
6 Killer’s Shebeen
7 Looking for Work
8 Photographing the Boers
The Drum Beat
9 Working with Africans
10 Going to the Ball
11 ‘Mr Drum’
12 ANC Conference 1951
13 Under New Management
14 ‘We Need More Chicks!’
15 Pumpy Naidoo and the Crimson League
16 Bethal
17 Ritual Murder and a Derby in Basutoland
18 Arrested with Dolly
19 Day of Unity
20 The ‘Tot’ System and a Gracious Hostess
21 Killer Tales
22 Too Many Martinis
23 Theatrical Interlude, a Road Trip, and Back to Sophiatown
24 A New Editor and a Catfight
25 Going to Church with Bloke
26 Spies, Lies and Literature
27 Cucumber Sandwiches
South Africa in White and Black
28 New Focus, New Directions
29 Winds of Change, White Journos and the Camel Border Patrol
30 Social Engagements and the Sunday Papers
31 Positives and Negatives
Europe
32 London – Berlin – London
33 Andalusia
Africa in Full Colour
34 Prayers at Sunset – From Senegal to Mali
35 Nescafé, Condensed Milk and Tinned Sardines
36 ‘Welcome to Ghana’
37 Birthday in Cameroon, Beer in Bangui
38 War and Peace – Zaire, Rwanda, Kenya
United Kingdom, United States, South Africa
39 Meeting Claudia and a Wintry Workshop
40 ‘It’s a Bit of a Shambles’ – The Drum Archive
41 Books, Films, Music
42 Robben Island and a New Era
EPILOGUE
RECENT AND SELECTED PORTFOLIO
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Germany 1941 – 1950



Air raid shelter, 1942


1
SLOW DESCENT INTO HELL
I was ten years old in early 1941 and living with my mother in a small ground-floor apartment attached to a shop on the Kurfürstendamm, one of the most fashionable parts of central Berlin. This was a wide boulevard full of expensive restaurants, luxury shops and nightclubs within an area that was vibrant and alive with artists, actors and writers. It was also where military personnel in their finest dress uniform came to promenade with their girlfriends.
In 1941 Germany was at the height of its power. The Blitzkrieg of 1940 had been a great success and, for many Germans, Hitler could do no wrong. However, most Berliners had no love for the Nazis and considered Hitler to be little more than a pretentious and dangerous upstart. Naturally cynical, and more sophisticated than most Germans, Berliners had traditionally sympathised more with communism and socialism than the national socialism of the Nazis. The city was no power base for Hitler and, in private, many Berliners opposed Hitler’s regime. Needless to say, any overt opposition was impossible and would have been brutally crushed instantly.
The reality of war had barely touched Berlin in 1941. Although there had been a few air raids, these had caused very little damage and were dismissed by most people as merely inconvenient. People still went to work as normal and the schools continued, as though there was no war. The streets were full of people shopping and in some restaurants fine wines and wonderful food were still served as usual by white-gloved waiters. The theatres did good business, the cinemas were full, and the trains and trams ran, as always, on time.
Certainly, the war had changed little in my life and my mother remained magnificently unconcerned. A striking woman, she enjoyed parties and socialising with her many friends; nights were spent working as an actress in the theatre, where she played small parts. She would be the maid who comes on stage bringing a visiting card on a silver plate to the lead actor. She also worked, when she could, in movies – minor roles, like a telephonist, for example. She took her calling seriously and was always posing for photographs. She also dressed glamorously, as would be expected of a potential star. Her name was Rosemarie but most of her friends called her Rosie.
We may have lived on the Ku’damm but our apartment was modest. It was attached to a driving school, the connecting door to which was permanently locked. In the main room there was a desk near the window which faced the Hinterhof, or backyard. The desk was covered with a glass plate and above it hung a birdcage, which was the home of Peter, our white budgie, who, when the window was closed, was free to fly around the room. My mother had very long red-painted fingernails and she used to tap-tap with two fingers walking along the glass plate on the desk. This was a signal for Peter to follow. He would puff up his feathers and walk stealthily, stretching out his legs in a parody of a goosestep, high, up and down. ‘Come, sweetie Peterle,’ my mother would whisper, making sucking noises with her lips. Sometimes Peter would fly onto my mother’s shoulder and they would kiss each other.
We had a telephone in our flat and my mother spent many hours on it talking to her friends, particularly to her friend Anita. I didn’t consciously listen when they were chatting, as I was usually buried in a book, but occasional words registered, such as ‘erotics’ and ‘men’. These words seemed to be of great interest to my mother and now and then, when I was present, she would drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Sometimes Anita came to visit. She invariably looked unhappy and depressed, and when she talked her eyes kept half closing. My mother, who was interested in the occult, would often settle down with her at a table, where they would sit facing each other. My mother would then produce a pack of cards and lay them out dramatically, one by one, face up, on the table.
‘I can see there’s a dark woman,’ my mother said on one such occasion, while Anita watched her, mesmerised. ‘She’s dangerous and treacherous. You must look out.’
‘I know her – you’re right!’ Anita said, getting agitated. My mother calmed her down and picked up another card. When she turned it over, it was the jack of hearts.
‘There’s a letter coming to you from an admirer. He will visit you soon,’ she said, which made Anita smile again. I turned back to my reading.
I was a great reader and devoted to books. If I had any free time I would be deep in a book. I can remember my delight at discovering Tolstoy and disappearing into his stories. That way I could shut out the world around me, especially the daily raving of one man on the radio, whom everyone called ‘the Leader’. I didn’t understand what he was on about but his voice was menacing and horrible. He was clearly a very angry man and he frightened me.
On my birthday a friend of my mother’s came to visit. He was very tall and wore a uniform. I think he was some sort of officer in the army. His name was Klaus and he brought us lots of presents from Paris – silk stockings and perfume for my mother and a pair of roller-skates and chocolate for me. The roller-skates were very modern. They had a platform with two leather bands to fit onto your shoe and two big wheels covered with rubber on each side in front and a small wheel at the back. I was very happy with the present. They weren’t as noisy as my iron four-wheelers.
Klaus also brought a small, fat bottle with a long neck with some fancy French writing on it, and he and my mother sat on the sofa-bed drinking out of small glasses. The bed didn’t look like a bed during the day but more like a couch. It had a red cover and lots of colourful cushions.
‘Jürgen, how about trying out the roller-skates? I’ll help you put them on,’ Klaus said. ‘It’s still light outside. I’ll give you one mark and you can go and get yourself an ice cream.’
Of course I was only too pleased to disappear and I left Klaus and my mother alone.
Actually, I had stopped calling my mother ‘Mother’ a few weeks prior to Klaus’s visit, after she and I had gone to see a recent acquaintance of hers. She had met this man on a train when returning from one of her many trips into the country. As we entered his large office in the factory where he worked, I noticed that he wore a fine suit. He had a thin moustache, the sort you saw on Hollywood actors.
‘Hello, Rosie!’ he said, rising up from behind a very large desk. ‘How wonderful to see you! And who is this young man