Once Removed

David Mann

Description

“The stories comprising Once Removed are consistently excellent... I have not been this compelled by a collection of short fiction in a considerable time.” – Dr Michael Titlestad The stories in Once Removed traverse the theatres, artist studios and archives that characterise the world of contemporary art and performance. But they also zero in on the homes, private lives, daily journeys and emotional interiorities of the various characters that inhabit them. While the stories in Once Removed draw from the undercurrents of the South African art world, their concerns and evocations are not limited to it.
“Once Removed is for readers who are familiar with the worlds of art and performance, and those for whom it is completely foreign. A reader doesn’t need to be immersed in the world of artists, critics, exhibitors, gallerists or academics to access the collection, and to enjoy the imbalances, precarity, hilarity, and possibilities represented in it,” explains Mann.
Part ironic realism, part experimental surrealism, these stories will matter differently, but equally significantly, to those inside and outside the world they evoke and inhabit.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Africa
• General
• General officer
• World Literature

Informations

• Publié par: Botsotso Publishing
• Date de parution: 08 mars 2024
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781990922749
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

"David Mann’s debut collection of stories about art and artists is elegant, plaintive, wry and urgent. It is an aFectionate deliberation of the importance of art – and writing about it – in our current time of disquiet." – Sean O'Toole

“The stories comprisingOnce Removedare consistently excellent: they are elegantly composed and provoking. Each depicts and evokes places, scenes, and interactions in subtle yet vivid ways. I have not been this compelled by a collection of short fiction in a considerable time.” – Prof. Michael Titlestad, Department of English, Wits.

“The stories are richly varied… Moral piety is crushed, the lies built into the artworld exposed, the struggle of youth to carve out its path in an uncertain market the book’s emotional core. As one of Mann’s characters remarks, ‘It is my job to gather the … words, images, infographics, and other rogue malleable things’. It is the last strung bead that is most telling. If anything, Mann’s keenly attuned and biting prose is rogue.” – Ashraf Jamal

David Mann

ONCE REMOVED

Stories

First published in 2024 by Botsotso 59 Natal Street, Bellevue East, 2198 Johannesburg

[e-mail] www.botsotso.org.za

e-ISBN: 978-1-990922-74-9

In the text © David Mann, all rights reserved

Edited by Warren Jeremy Rourke Proofread by Allan Kolski Horwitz andYoulendree Appasamy Cover artwork: “Neighbours” by Daniel Nel Design and layout by James de Villiers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, incidents, performances and works of art are theproducts of the author’s imagination. Similarly, actual placesand incidents in these stories are used fictitiously.

For Youlendree

Resistance ..........................................1 Rain ..................................................11 Common Ground.............................24 The Park ...........................................31 The Real Deal ..................................47 Meaningful Contributions ...............61 The Burning Museum ......................68 Provenance.......................................85 Once Removed.................................88 A Record ........................................ 102 Burden ........................................... 115 Settled ............................................ 120 Nothing To Be Done....................... 1 31

RESISTANCE

“Closed on Mondays” reads the sign fixed to the tall, glass doors of the gallery looking out onto Jan Smuts Avenue. Below this, the opening times. He presses the buzzer and an electronic bell chimes somewhere inside. No response. Cupping his hand against the glass and peering inside for a better view, he presses the buzzer again. Nothing. He takes out his phone and composes a message: Hi, Musa. It’s Michael. I’m outside the gallery, as discussed. Where are you? “Closed today, boza.” The voice comes from a man wearing a faded reflective jacket and a bright red beanie, standing behind him. “I see that,” says Michael, returning to his phone. “If you come tomorrow, or any day in the rest of the week, it’s open. On Mondays they closed. Sundays, also,” says the man in the reflective jacket, now pointing at the sign displaying the gallery’s opening times. “It’s fine. I’m here to see someone.” “You work here?” “Yes,” says Michael, wanting to end the interaction as quickly as possible. “You don’t maybe have a five rand for me, boza? Just to buy bread. I work as a guard here. I watch the cars.” “No,” says Michael. Then, after a moment, “I don’t carry cash on me.” The car guard walks past Michael and sets his bag down on the pavement. It’s shortly after 8am and Jan Smuts is filled with

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cars, delivery bikes, minibus taxis and busses, all transporting people to their places of work. Michael runs his hand over a patch of thinning hair on the crown of his head. He hates the commotion, the bodies, the endless roadworks that cause small orange dust-storms on the pavements whenever cars go by. Exhaust fumes settle into his lungs. He coughs into the sleeve of his jacket and looks at his phone again. Still nothing. “Is that your car, there?” asks the car guard. Why is he wasting his time here, Michael wonders? He could easily have viewed the contents of the exhibition from the comfort of his home. Judging a work by its digital copy, however, is hardly a substitute for sizing up the piece in real life. He needs to have time with the works in person, alone. This is what he told the gallery, at least. Really, he doesn’t think it matters much either way. He simply enjoys the exclusivity and the ceremony of private viewings such as these – how important they make him feel, the urgency they place on his words. That is, when the gallery remembers to send someone to open for him on time. “No,” says Michael, not looking at the car. “Listen, have you seen anyone come in here this morning?” “Nobody,” comes the reply. “Can I do a car wash? I can do body, windows, and tyres all in twenty minutes.” “No.” “Okay, but I’m gonna keep an eye for you,” he replies. “Make sure everything’s okay.” Michael has stopped listening. He peers into the gallery once more, wondering what to do. Another voice comes from behind him. “Hi! Are you here to meet Musa? I’m so sorry!” Michael turns and sees a young woman, a jumble of keys jangling in her left hand and a takeaway coee cup in the other. “There was a mix up, and he’s not able to make it this morning, but he sent me through to show you around. So sorry,” she says, flustered.

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Her hair is loose and messy, and Michael guesses she’s been awake all of ten minutes. He wants to express his frustration in some way. Is this the kind of person they send to facilitate his viewings now? This mess of a 20-something? Eager to get o the street, however, he motions towards the doors of the gallery and says, “Can I have a look inside?” “Of course,” she says, fumbling with the keys. “Okay boza, I’m gonna keep an eye for you,” says the car guard, still standing beside his backpack near the entrance of the gallery. “What? No, no. I can see my car just fine from inside.” Michael follows the woman through the door, away from the dry, smoggy heat and noise of Jan Smuts and into the cool respite of the gallery.

“Dani,” she says, flicking a large switch on the left wall, causing a series of small circular lights to shine down and illuminate the exhibition. Save for the glass façade, the space has no windows and is unusually dark inside. An air conditioning unit hums softly in the background. Seeing the lights go up like this reminds Michael of the high- end car dealerships he sees dotted along the highway; how they keep their lights on all through the night, spotlighting their most prized pieces for you to see as you drive by. “Sorry?” he replies, not looking at her. “I’m Dani,” she repeats. “I work with Musa on a lot of the exhibitions. Actually, I’m more of his assistant, but I did get to help out a little with the curation of this show, which was cool. I’m actually an artist myself.” “Lovely,” says Michael. “Is this everything?” He gestures towards the length of the gallery. It’s a rectangular room divided up by white prefabricated walls. Framed photographic prints and painted works populate the walls of the gallery. Sculptures, multi-media installations,

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