#processional art

Mamela! Listen! And Know My Story

Story Exchange.  It is the experience of sharing, but also listening deeply enough to retell a story in your own words.  And it’s had a deep impact on the students who have participated. 

These are the reasons they chose to celebrate the act of revealing and receiving each other’s stories:

·      We learn from each other’s paths.

·      We see that we’re not alone in our feelings or experiences.

·      And we learn that no one is a single story.  Instead, we all have many stories, are built of layers of stories, many of which are not obvious at a quick glance.

And it is how we make visible and own our truths. Especially when they are difficult or historically silenced.

Speaking of making visible, one of our first tasks was to identify images, to brainstorm ways to visualize and convey the messages behind this story-exchange procession.  

And so our two-week project opened with the construction of papier machéd cardboard shoes (as symbols of empathy, of moving into another’s experience);

mouths and ears (which remind us that it is not enough to dare to speak if there is no one to bear witness); 

and masks (two-sided faces whose fronts reveal an array of not-yet-shared emotions, and whose backs show the tears and peaceful smile of a less-burdened self afterwards).

They are objects that will be performed, be the “choreographed sculptures” within our procession. Vividly imagined objects that also invite spectators to join and hear us.

While our previous processions also made use of such performing objects, there are a number of ways that this year’s project is turning out to be quite unlike our preceding three.  Instead of the puppetry that has carried each narrative, we're experimenting with creating and performing something called a cantastoria, or "sung picture”, an art form that lends itself to visualizing our impressions of the story exchanges. It’s truly an experiment for us all, a work very much in progress, whose final shape has not yet revealed itself.

But possibly the most significant feature of this procession is that students have chosen to frame it more as a celebration than a protest or speak out. We still aim to creatively raise awareness, yet above all else, this year we honor what it is to “Come Out!” and to hold a safe space for each other to do so.

“food makes us strong”.  this is the name the children chose for their procession.  we made posters, and hung them throughout the township.

we were photographed for the front page of the regional “weekend post”, and interviewed on a local radio station to share the word of the forthcoming event.

we spent our last few afternoons in rehearsal, practicing what it is to march and pause to perform scenes, to use the drums to cue actions, to provide a rhythm for the movements and songs of each scene.  to get a feel for operating the puppets in a controlled, believable, way, and as a unit, working together. 

  the wind was terribly ferocious just two days before the procession, but the morning of the 22nd of october found us with a calm and clear sky, a most kind answer to our collective intention-setting and prayers. 

so what was this day like? imagine the sweetest, most powerful, young voices echoing throughout the streets of joe slovo township (“louder!”). a large banner proclaiming “ukutya kusenza somelele, food makes us strong” stands at the head of this long train (u loliwe) of some 60 beautiful kids that snakes down dusty hills and through narrow streets, a line of fiercely proud drummers bringing up the rear, and the whole procession punctuated by brightly collaged puppets dancing high overhead.

   so here’s what the kids came up with as a way to speak out…

scene one: the children, whose empty bowls are filled with vegetables by mama, the woman who cooks in the school, as they sing, “ukutya, ukutya, ukutya nga mandla” (the food, it feeds you).

scene two: the puppets from bisho, the regional seat of government, they appear…

(no cameras, please...)

…and play a game of give and take with the suitcase full of rand notes that funds the lunch program, ultimately plucking from the children’s bowls each piece of food that had been there.

and one by one, to the rhythm of the djembes, the empty bowls are turned over to reveal the words si lambile (“we are hungry”).

and the children responded by singing more loudly, drumming more fiercely, dancing so gorgeously, and our procession swelled as neighbors joined us.

  and finally, scene three: iskolo, school, where we see “how can a hungry child concentrate in class with a stomach that roars like a lion?”…

…and where this hungry lion delivers to bisho the invitation to come to the township and see for themselves the consequences of their policies. 

we didn’t get to go to bisho during my stay, but in the days that followed our procession, we brainstormed ideas for a what-comes-next action.  what the kids chose to do was write letters to the department of education there, asking for its support in reinstating the lunch program, explaining the effects of its absence, and the project they’d built in response.  

so what did happen in undertaking this entire project?  our initial question had been one of exploring how we can use art, use beauty, to demonstrate our concerns, to invite people to listen, building upon the country’s already strong history of doing so.  and our initial hope had been to offer kids, through the act of collective art making, an experience of their feeling their own power to affect change.

did we do this? there was one exceptional moment during our procession, something so heartbreakingly beautiful to me.  while the whole length of us descended a hill leading to the house of the mayor of the township, i stepped aside and caught a glimpse of us all dancing in the streets, smiling to each other mid-song. i could see the little ones watching and absorbing, and the elder folks cheering.  i could feel everyone so electrified, so powerful, so shining, and the whole thing became as this living example of what the commitment of the kids created. 

it was a living example, too, of the generosity of all involved. the teaching artists gave of themselves, and the kids gave of themselves, fully and completely, and not only for themselves, but for fellow children in surrounding schools dealing with the same situation.  it was an example of art being a vehicle of generosity instead of the vehicle of self-aggrandizement i’m more used to seeing. 

and it was also a living example of how art making is a certain type of nourishment of its own, an essential one that allows us to strengthen and feel alive and fed and in our own power…

the world of radical puppetry is a wildly generous one.  from the puppetistas creating spectacles for political demonstrations, to processional artists’ constructing “choreographed sculptures”, i’ve experienced such a continual willingness to share expertise, to extend opportunities to participate, and to offer fierce mutual support.  and these past two weeks we’ve been putting to use what i’ve gleaned from my time spent learning at the feet of these folks.

we began with cardboard, the most blessedly malleable and accessible of materials.  and with some handy staple-pliers (do not leave home without these!), we designed and constructed the flat props, and cut and shaped the three-dimensional puppet heads needed for our procession.  it’s a bit like garment making, using darts to give volume where there was none.

and it’s a bit like baking, adding just the right amount of water to make fluid the concentrated glue that we use for papier mache.  collaging banana and mango leaf papers gives color and texture in a way i find far more interesting than paint allows.

(kids in front of the school building, literally...)

but this weekend saw us tackling the job of rigging all that we’ve built, of having to figure out the engineering of gale-force-wind-friendly armatures given the materials and time at hand (thank you, port elizabeth, for the reminder that “limitation is the mother of all art”).  the kids were mind-blowing, as was the brilliant teaching assistant who is part of the after-school program.  while i went in there not yet knowing exactly what i needed to do, within a short amount of time, they’d already gotten the feel for cutting bamboo, wrapping wire, and fashioning jointed limbs; basically, they learned to build an articulated puppet skeleton.

and as for those gale-force gusts we have to keep in mind, ooh, but the winds have been intense!  just after sunset last night, we were struck by the drama of a turbulent surf, huge, frothy waves crashing over the breakers and up to the pier, and a tide that had a farther expanse than anything i’d yet seen.  so this is what this part of the indian ocean can do…

but now i am off.  it’s an early morning, returning to the school to complete the final details of draping fabric, attaching poles, and gluing raffia.  we’ll be rolling the ink over our last few collograph prints today in preparation for the next two days of rehearsal. and i’ve got to say, it’s amazing to witness the movements the kids have devised, to listen to them singing “food is power” and songs adapted from the struggle against apartheid, and to behold them drumming, all taught to them by some big-hearted and bright-spirited local volunteer artists and musicians.

(si lambile, we are hungry, in xhosa...)

so, until next, may your day be as infinite as the clear sky above…