by M Barben and S Thomas
It’s 11pm and the place is empty. One of the security guards dims the lights as he leaves. The sound of closing doors echoes through the space; it’s time.
I climb out of my frame, remove the plastic flower from my mouth and stretch my aching limbs. I’m freezing and I need to find a shirt. I can hear the elephant bleating in distress from across the hall. The sound adds to a cacophony of shuffling figures and waking images. One of Angus Taylor’s giant golems has mounted Rodney Place’s suspended saddle, leaving a trail of dirt across the left wing.
Nyana V. Jackson’s nude warriors have seized and reassembled Paula Louw’s suspended revolvers and are attempting to poach Brett Murray’s gorillas, who seem to be playing with Deborah Bell’s very serious looking dog. Kentridge’s women weep quietly, clearly upset by their representation. The left wing is altogether chaotic and alarming. I move off into less hostile waters.
A cool sea breeze drifts through SMAC, I decide to take a swim. Colder than before, Ian Grose lends me his jersey and looks at me compassionately with all ten of his eyes. Around the corner Barend de Wet’s pretty balloons float to the ceiling. Ed contorts his hairy arm and flexes his stiffened hand after ages of maintaining the contemptuous position.
I’m lured to the right wing by ethereal chanting. A séance of sorts seems to be taking place; Sanell Aggenbach’s ghosts dance around Justin Brett’s charcoal-smudged monolith and Matthew Hindley’s hyena howls at a non existent moon. Slightly perturbed, I sneak away and narrowly avoid The Black Terror’s mean left hook. I walk past What if the World and notice Jan-Henri’s silver skull gaping at Daniella Mooney’s prettier, flower-adorned equivalent.
I spot Athi on a woven beach in the distance. I grab a few bottles of Pommery and walk hurriedly towards the palm scattered shore. Eager to dress up for midnight bellinis, I beg Sophie to lend me her dress. Refusing to part with her prized possession, I settle for one of Athi’s leotards and spend the remainder of the night in the haze of an eternal summer.
Dawn beckons me back to my frame. I undress and climb in, the plastic rose wedged between my teeth. With Naïve Melody playing in my head, I settle down for another day of men staring at my breasts. A hangover awaits. Thanks a lot, Pieter Hugo.