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| View some writings | ||
| View some tapestries | ||
| Biography of Albert Chr. Reck | ||
| Critiques & comments | ||
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| View some coustomers |
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| View some writings | ||
| View some tapestries | ||
| Biography of Albert Chr. Reck | ||
| Critiques & comments | ||
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| View some coustomers |
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Four days journey by donkey, across the eastern reaches of these Dragon Mountains to the gentler, lower valleys and ridges of the Ngwenya uplands, and a century or so later we find another artist. Perhaps also a hunter-healer, for it is said that he speaks to the ancient one whose spirit lives now at Endlotane, amongst all the others who come finally to this restful place. Many, many things are said of Endlotane and its Studios, but today we follow the life and times of a praise song, an idea born a century or more ago, and transformed to vivid life by a contemporary artist. Today this work stands in the studio of Albert Christoph Reck on the mountain in Ngwenya at Endlotane Studios. The paint is not yet dry, but a few curious onlookers are gathered in the doorway mesmerized by the mystical vibrancy of this otherworld creation. A moment of destiny looms, the universe holds it breath and at the creative epicenter a voice speaks. An American voice, with a nasal mid-western twang. "Say, are yer selling that thang. Goddam`, will you looky here Mavis. Aint she a beauty?" A soft exhalation and life continues, a deal is struck, a date, a place and a time are the promise. The design is a limited edition of 20, and Mark and Mavis Davids from Phoenix, Arizona are the proud soon to be owners of the first hand-woven mohair wall-hanging in this limited edition. Adelina in the Carding section takes down her soft newly dyed, moth-proofed tops of mohair and begins the intricate process of combining the many colours to produce carded swirls of different shades and tones for the design. Then it must be put aside till the staticfire that snaps and crackles in those gossamer threads is dead, for none may work these skeins then. She will continue throughout the 3 - 4 weeks that the tapestry is being woven, to mix in very close consultation with Sibongile who now interprets line, form and colour. In the Spinning section silent, pensive Dudu Tsela sets the wheel humming as she spins the fibre that binds the yarn to tell the story that Sibongile sings, from the Shaman in the mountains of the Dragon, to his brother in the hills of Ngwenya, in the Kingdom of Kings. The mohair under the cunning hand, the deft touch of Sibongile who like Adelina has been here since the early days when Sobhuza the Wise ruled still, comes to animated life. The symbols and figures flex and strain in their silken mesh, and the eyes perceive what mayhap the mind cannot comprehend. The song is the selfsame, though the shape and tone are somewhat changed. Mark and the plump Mavis may be assured that none posses the one they call their own. Similar in some general regard, yet not alike. From the busy, nimble fingers and sharp tongue of the irrepressible Sibongile, shimmering and invested now with latent energy, the tapestry travels to the Finishing section. Here at the hands of Maria the treatment changes dramatically. Pummeling is the order of the day. Now limp and somewhat dejected, the wall-hanging is given a fabric softening session followed by heat treatment, a manicure and a massage the like of which has never been experienced by a mohair byproduct before. Suitably chastised, this firstborn San fibresong is ready for backing and loops to hold up on the wall. For it is only on the wall that the songs of praise will be sung. A song from long ago, when a hunter-healer-artist gave thanks to his ancestors, and paid homage to the noble eland that offered its life, and fulfilled a prophecy. The long journey is coming to an end now, across the sea and the mountains and the dark forests of the Americas, in a silver bird that creeps across the pink sky, and finally, finally falls gently to the ground to touch, bounce…….a shriek, another shriek and finally like a pregnant buffalo, UPS Flight 215 comes to a waddling, shuffling halt somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona. Dance of the Eland can feel the dawn, like that new day 200 years ago when the African sun peered over the mountains and touched the figures running on the gray rock in the cave of the Shaman. |
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