The Collection: a review by Emile Maurice

At the end of the 80s, at a time when the anti-apartheid struggle was at its most intense, Albie Sachs, who was later to become a Constitutional Court judge, shook up the thinking of cultural activists who thought that art should be a "weapon in struggle".

"What", he asked "are we fighting for, if not the right to express our humanity in all its forms, including our sense of fun and capacity for love and tenderness and our appreciation of the beauty of the world? There is nothing that the apartheid rulers would like more than to convince us that because apartheid is ugly, the world is ugly."

What Sachs was calling for way back in 1989 was a broad, widely encompassing vision of art that told of our humanity in its variety, complexity and richness. And it's this cultural vision, this vision of art as an expression of the spectrum of human dynamics, that lies at the heart of the Constitutional Court's collection.

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Assembled by Sachs, with assistance from his colleagues, particularly Justice Yvonne Mokgoro, it's a collection that takes you on a journey, that transports you everywhere - from the harsh, baked and arid earth of the Karoo, to a stern-faced Nelson Mandela in New York; from the myth of the mermaid in Sri Lanka, to cathartic outpourings of grief at the death of a loved one; from the smell and wonder of a Cape landscape in bloom, to tributes to South African women as heroines of struggle; from a no-holds-barred rendition of a woman whose flabby body sags under the weight of age, to Moshoeshoe gazing at Thaba Bosiu, the mountain that served as a fortress for the Basotho in the 19th century.

Such variety was not what I expected before I first viewed the collection. What I had expected instead was a collection that told a South African story focusing on the sagas and episodes that led to the birth of the "rainbow nation", a fairly straightforward narration of the road through apartheid to the Constitution and after.

Not that there aren't a number of works that take us to the days of resistance and struggle, reminders of people's resilience, courage and commitment to overcome apartheid's iniquity. Cases in point are Sipho Ndlovu's 'Images of South African History', a cut-to-the-quick, collage-like series of four paintings tracing a path from colonialism, through apartheid, to liberation and after; and Kim Berman's 'Alex under Siege', a large, monochromatic, eight-part work.

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'Alex' is an artwork that bears witness, that testifies to history. Drawing on familiar images from the 80s, those taken by our social documentary photographers and flashed around the world by the media during those turbulent times, it shows a community locked in battle with the apartheid state for the values and rights that were eventually to be enshrined in the Constitution. It's all there - the charged, tense atmosphere of a township in the grip of repression, the spirit of rebellion, the youth with stone in hand, the despised police vans, the archetypal figure with raised, clenched fist, the Hector Peterson-type image of a youth being carried away by two African women… the smell and fury of a township on fire, in the grip of a siege.

As much as 'Alex' takes us back to the days of "cry freedom" during the last throes of conflict between communities and the apartheid state, so 'Berman's Fires of the Truth Commission' tells of another chapter in our history on the road to building democracy and a new nation. 'Fires' deals with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established in 1995 by the new democratic government as a way of ridding ourselves of apartheid's demons through telling and confessing, as a way of healing festering wounds, and as a way of forgiving but not forgetting our sordid past.

Equally large and imposing as 'Alex', this work shows, speaks and spits fire - the fire of apartheid agents confessing their crimes of torture and murder, as much as the fire of pain, anger and tragedy that burnt in the minds and hearts of those telling of how they were victimised by brutality.

Berman's inspiration for the work was the fires that burn on the highveld around Johannesburg - a metaphor for South Africa's "trial by fire" at the truth commission. But just as fire is a symbol of destruction, so it tells of rejuvenation, of arising anew from the ashes like that mythological bird, the phoenix. Unlike 'Alex', then, which holds us in the grip of the past, conjuring memories of anti-apartheid rallies, freedom songs, battle cries and slogans, 'Fires' propels us forward, to days brighter - to a nation cleansed and awaiting re-growth.

Another work from the collection inspired by that crucible for reconciliation, the truth commission, is a three-part piece called 'The Blue Dress' by Judith Mason . It's a riveting work, one that stops you in your tracks, that seduces and mesmerises by its sheer beauty, before pinning you to its agonising and traumatic content. Its source is a gruesome story about the barbarism of apartheid's hit squads.

Listening to a radio report on the commission, Mason was moved by a story about an African woman whose body had been discovered after the security police had executed her. Speaking about the body, found naked in a shallow grave except for a piece of plastic covering her private parts, a security policeman confessed something like this: "I turned to my colleague before putting the gun to her head and shooting her, and said, 'God she is brave', because she asked if she could kneel and sing Nkosi Sikelele before she was killed."

Mason's response to such atrocity and the plight of the woman was so strong that she rushed off to find some blue plastic bags, which were caringly sewed together to make a dress. Unlike the precious art object - that which has to be "seen but not touched" - it was designed to be unravelled, to be unfurled as if reading a book. Locked in its drapes, shut away but waiting to be discovered, are the following touching words, written in paint now peeling from the plastic through the touch of many hands. It's worth quoting in full:

"Sister, a plastic bag may not be the whole armour of God, but you were wrestling with flesh and blood, and against powers, against the rulers of darkness, against spiritual wickedness in sordid places. Your weapons were your silence and a piece of rubbish. Finding that bag and wearing it until you were disinterred is such a frugal, common-sensical, house-wifely thing to do, an ordinary act… At some level you shamed your capturers, and they did not compound their abuse of you by stripping you a second time. Yet they killed you. We only know your story because a sniggering man remembered how brave you were. Memorials to your courage are everywhere; they blow about in the streets and drift on the tide and cling to thorn-bushes. This dress is made from some of them. Hamba kahle. Umkhonto."

When Sachs first saw the dress in the artist's studio, he recognised it for what it is - a powerful, imaginative conception that cuts to the South African bone. But, as he felt that it was too distressing and depressing for the Court, he asked the artist to temper the work, to make it somehow less biting and "cut-throat".

The outcome was a triptych comprising the dress and two fairly large paintings, each showing the dress suspended, flaying in the wind, and a snarling beast, a predator - the apartheid agent of violence waiting to pounce. One of the paintings, however, shows a row of blazing braziers - the glowing embers of hope.

In contrast to 'The Blue Dress', which deals unambiguously and starkly with malice and brutality, the works by legendary artist from the struggle era, Dumile Feni, exude compassion and a great sense of caring for people - exactly what lies right at the core of our Constitution with its Bill of Rights. And it is this sense of caring, expressed through the way he dignifies the downtrodden, that leads Sachs, who was close to Dumile during the artist's 23 years of exile in London and New York (from 1968 to 1991), to adopt an extraordinary view of the artist.

"What was special about him", Sachs says, "was that, at a time when artists connected with the struggle were painting bodies being carried away, and fists and spears, and denunciations of the cruelty of the regime, Dumile was concentrating on the dignity of the people, their tenderness, their humanity. And, in a sense, he prefigured our whole constitutional order, what our Bill of Rights is about."

Of the works by Dumile in the collection, some allude to the old South Africa as an "imprisoned society", while others celebrate music, jazz in particular. But it is those dealing with love and sexual metaphors such as bulls and horses, or those paying homage to women, that are perhaps answers to Sach's memorable rhetorical question from 1989: "Can it be that once we join the ANC we do not make love anymore, that when the comrades go to bed they discuss the role of the white working class?"

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Nowhere is Dumile's sense of caring and compassion for the poor and oppressed better demonstrated than in his 'Penny whistler'. Made in the presence of Sachs in his flat in London in 1969 as a way of paying for a few meals, and about a year after the artist had left South Africa for good on an exit permit, it shows a musician mollycoddled by Dumile's love and sensitivity, so that it glows with tenderness and warmth. And, as Sachs recalls, it all happened in a flash, in a marvellous, spontaneous, un-laboured moment: "Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch"… and it was done.

Such was the extraordinary dexterity of Dumile, every inch the gifted, down-and-out, poverty-stricken, tortured soul - the maladjusted genius, if you will - who, although politically committed, refused to be shackled by ideological prescription or strict party lines.

But there are also other artists represented in the collection who display a sensitivity of hand similar to that seen in 'Penny whistler'. One of these is William Kentridge, epitome of the highly accomplished, intellectual professional, who acknowledges his debt to Dumile. Another is Anne Sassoon, a somewhat distant figure in South African art now living in Israel with her husband, who works on promoting reconciliation in the region.

Reading as a universal statement on vulnerability and remorse, and rendered with great empathy, Kentridge's 'Sleeper' shows a corpulent, naked and prostrate man who, unable to face the world, seeks comfort and solace in his own arms.

But there is more to the story: While this could be any one of us in a moment of desperation, 'Sleeper' is actually a representation of Ubu, the murderous, buffoonish dictator from Alfred Jarry's play, 'Ubu Roi', which was first staged in Paris in 1896. One of a suite of eight etchings by the artist dealing with this despot - also a theme favoured by another cultural icon, Robert Hodgins, who is represented in the collection by two works - it's really a work about guilt, conscience, and conflict with the self, about Ubu atoning for his sins and excesses.

If 'Sleeper' shows a man in isolation, lost in himself and disengaged from the world, Sassoon's tender and heartfelt series of three drawings, 'Ismail and Isaac', speaks of union and togetherness, and is also perhaps a comment on Arab-Israeli relations in Palestine. The work shows different versions of two twin-like, forlorn figures in tattered, ragamuffin clothing. Drawn as if from the inside out, as if from the core of their souls, they exude sadness and sorrow, as if some great tragedy, or unfortunate turn of events, has beset and shaken their lives. Holding hands in two of the drawings and side by side in the other, they seem to have nothing but themselves, nothing but the bonds between them.

What links Kentridge to Sassoon is a concern with the human condition, which points to the nature of the collection as a whole: Just as with the Constitution, it tells of a strong a commitment to people, and shows human beings in various guises, circumstances, settings and postures.

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None of the works in the collection, however, relate more directly and acutely to the Constitution than those from the print portfolio, 'Images of Human Rights'. Conceived as a project by Artists for Human Rights, a Durban-based organisation formed in 1988 to mark the 40th anniversary of the United Nation's Declaration of Human Rights, the prints make for a powerful and celebratory story about South Africa's national values, aspirations and regard for people.

Mostly easily digestible, literal depictions that communicate meanings and messages in an uncomplicated way, each work from the portfolio deals with one of the 27 clauses in the Bill of Rights - the right to equality, dignity, life, freedom, privacy, cultural association, and so on. Diane Victor's 'Access to Information', for example, showing a newspaper vendor shouting out the news, relates to the right to obtain any information held by the state (section 24 of the Bill of Rights); Nhlanhla Xaba's 'Migrant family life in South Africa', depicting an invasion of an overcrowded and claustrophobic bedroom by an unseen intruder, refers to the right to privacy (section 6); and Norman Kaplan's 'All shall be afforded dignity', a rendition of the poorest of the poor, among them women, workers and the handicapped, focuses on the right of all to have their self-worth respected (section 2).

Also from the human-rights portfolio is Vedant Nanackchand's'Access to courts', a work directly pertinent to the very meaning of the Constitutional Court as a user-friendly, people's institution guarding and guaranteeing the rights of all, no matter status or station in life. It shows the face of a tense, nervous-looking man - the accused in a trial, and perhaps a portrait from the dock. Surrounding him are images associated with the judicial process, including, pertinently, a Graeco-Roman portico of columns with the scales of justice imaged on a pediment above - exactly the over-used and clichéd symbols the Court sought to avoid when it approached Carolyn Parton, a Cape Town artist also represented in the collection by a vibrant, sparkling work about Cape Town, to design a logo for the Court.

What the logo had to convey was something of the Court's ethos and culture as a place of protection for all people; a sense that the Court is of Africa; and the idea that the Constitution is rooted in history, that it is an outcome of a protracted struggle for human rights - something, in other words, that sparkled with the new, that bathed us in democracy.

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In the end, and with contributions "by committee", by various people, the chosen symbol was the tree, the tree that shelters and protects, that roots itself firmly, that stands strong against the sometimes raging elements - the tree as constitution. But the tree of the logo, which shows a gathering of people under its branches, is not any old tree: It's a tree telling of African life and an African way, as it is under a tree that traditional justice is dispensed.

Parton's logo with tree - transformed into a plaque by the department of public works and unveiled when President Nelson Mandela opened the Court on 14 February 1995 - was the first object to enter the collection.

But trees feature in quite a few works in the collection. Some examples are Hilda Bernstein's 'African Elephant' and a work by an Angolan artist, both showing the baobab tree; Johannes Maswanganyi's 'Perfect Paradise'; and 'Banyan Tree' by Monika Correa, the wife of Charles Correa, the architect who chaired the jury that judged the international competition for the new Court building.

Correa's striking black-and-white tapestry, a seemingly simple representation of a tree that seems to shimmer and reverberate into space as if sending signals into the environment, is actually rich in symbolism, and a clever and powerful link with, and play on, the Court's logo. For this is the Indian national tree, Ficus bengalensis, which has branches that root themselves like new trees over a large area, so symbolising the regeneration of the universe - something akin to the way the spirit of the Constitution has rooted itself in people across a country renewed by the culture of human rights.

What's more, besides being steeped in the myths, legends and sacred life of India, the banyan tree is the focal point of Indian village life, and it is under the shade and shelter of this tree that the village council meets to transact much of its affairs - exactly the idea behind the Court's logo.

The other major "tree work" in the collection, Maswanganyi's captivating, nourishing and witty sculpture, 'Perfect Paradise', is a work of an entirely different order. Perhaps a reference to the paradise of Adam and Eve before the fall, as the artist sometimes works with biblical themes, it shows a man stepping through, and literally reaching out to, a forest of trees with birds, and tells of rapport and communion with nature.

Uplifting, life-affirming and charming, 'Paradise' is perhaps a prime example of the kind of work Sachs has in mind when, in speaking about the vision at the core of the collection, he says: "There shouldn't be anything in the artwork that could be offensive or distressing to anybody because of the thematic. It's not to say that there isn't a need for art that's angry, that's denunciatory, that's satirical, that can be savage - there is a need for that but not in the Constitutional Court."

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This view that art can uplift, ennoble, enrich and nurture, rather than disturb and distress, that it can provide sustenance for mind, heart and spirit, rather than weigh down with anguish, applies to any number of works in the collection, with the possible exception of Mason's 'The Blue Dress'.

Consider, for example, Jane Nkata and Billy Makhubele's colourful and vibrant exultation, 'Day of Freedom', a large beadwork depicting Nelson Mandela casting his vote on that day of euphoria in 1994, when we put a lid on the past.

Other instances include those intimate renderings of gardeners and backyard people by Liliyane Daneel, and domestic workers by Kami Brodie, all portraits that make ordinary, everyday, and often unacknowledged, people radiate with self-worth and dignity; and Willie Bester's 'Discussion', a warm tribute to African women and the value of dialogue, and a work expressing the Constitution's spirit of ubuntu, its spirit of goodwill and respect for others.

Woven into a tapestry by Margaret Zulu, June Xaba and Talita Lepondo from the Marguerite Stephens Studio in Diepsloot, near Johannesburg, 'Discussion' embodies two other characteristics of the artworks in the collection - size and impact. Like Paul Stopforth's 'Freedom Dancer', which shines so brightly with the optimism of 27 April 1994, and Norman Catherine's somewhat satirical 'Speaker of the House', it is a large, imposing work, creating presence through beauty and meaning, yes, but also through scale - exactly what Sachs and his colleagues sought when building the collection, although this was never set down as a guideline in policy.

What was needed were works that could intensify and amplify the spectrum of the Constitution in the first place, but which also "came off the walls"; works that were large, bold and striking, creating a presence, not so much through detail, as through capturing the attention of the variety of passers-by going about their Court business, most of whom wouldn't necessarily be art lovers as such.

Two other works that fit this bill are Walter Oltmann's 'Mediator' and 'Freedom', a collaborative work by Cecil Skotnes and Hamilton Budaza. Both are technically stunning pieces of craftsmanship and both in a way tell of coming and going.

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'Mediator', a sculpture taking the form of an old-fashioned hat stand with hooks and mirror, draws on the culture of a bygone age in which the hat was something of a fashion statement and a status symbol of polite, so-called "civilised' society". Invoking the era of servants, butlers and drawing rooms in large Victorian houses, and the lifestyle and image of the rich and affluent, it speaks of the hat stand as mediation between arrivals and departures, between inside and outside, between the coming and going of colonial men as they went about their business.

'Freedom', on the other hand, tells of a coming and going of a different kind, and is a mediation of another order - between past and present, between life subjugated and life unshackled, between the scars of the past and hope for the future, between apartheid and democracy. Made by two artists from vastly different backgrounds, it comprises seven carved and coloured wood panels: The central panel showing a figure reaching for the sky, partly in praise and partly in aspiration, is by Skotnes, and the rest by Budaza. Heralding and saluting the new dawn in 1994, it is one of the collection's most confident, optimistic and commanding works that, both in style and content, embraces and exudes the African renaissance.

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Overwhelming everything in the collection through sheer size and presence though, is the monumental, consuming and spectacular 'The benefit of the doubt', a computer-generated tapestry in three parts by Marlene Dumas, an internationally acclaimed artist who was born in South Africa but now lives in Amsterdam. Donated to the Court by the Dutch government and handed over by Prime Minister Wim Kok in 2001, each tapestry shows three figures in close-up, because, as the artist says, "One is alone, two is a couple and three is politics".

Dumas has said that "doubt is the basis of the constitutional state", making 'The benefit of the doubt' a piece particularly appropriate for the Court. Identical to one that hangs in the Court of Justice in Den Bosch, the Netherlands, and something of a culmination of her earlier work about law, justice, innocence and freedom, it seems to allude to those innocent until proven guilty - those in the dock. And as we gaze at them, and as they bear down on us with their sad, benign looks, it is us, the viewers, who are here cast in the role of judge, who are called upon to enter the mind of an arbitrator assessing truth before making judgments and calls on the future of people's lives.

Like 'The benefit of the doubt', 'Mediator' and 'Freedom', all of the 200 or so works in the collection were donated to the Court, bar one - a tapestry by Joseph Ndlovu, purchased from an acquisitions, or more correctly décor, budget of just R10 000.

That says everything about the generosity and goodwill of the donors - the many artists, gallery owners, dealers and patrons of the arts who have unselfishly parted with works, and notably Sachs himself who, out of his own pocket, purchased and donated many a work.

All of them have helped to establish a personality, an image, an ambience for the Court as a place of welcome and comfort for one and all, irrespective of background, culture and history, and no matter whether a gallery sophisticate or someone who hardly considers art at all. While responses to the works will no doubt differ according to taste - and so they should - each piece is not just a gift to the highest court in the land, but a pledge of faith to democracy and a tribute to the Constitution and its values.

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