The Dark Knight

I love parties and celebrations, because I can dress up in full costume and make-up even if the party does not have a theme. In fact, on Planet Gorgeous I dress up every day because I never know when my unexpected audience might see me collect the mail from my mail box at the gate.

Last year I was invited by the Getafix-family to their Christmas Eve family dinner. Because there are so many children and grand children, the matriarch of the family requested that I organize a Nativity play involving everyone present. She wanted to install the true meaning of Christmas to the kids while keeping them entertained at the same time.

Christmas Eve arrived, and so did I, armed with bags of costumes and props for the production. The Getafixes viewed me with suspicion and immediately labelled me as an anarchist when I started to unpack my bags and hand out costumes and roles to every unsuspecting family member. I designated shepherds, wise men, angels, Joseph, Mary, the in-keeper and, last but not least, to the youngest member of the family (the three year old Attila the Hun), the role of Baby Jesus.

As I proceeded to give them a rundown of the plot and running order of the play, I could sense a fraction of hostility from most of the adults. Their peaceful Christmas dinner ritual was being turned upside down by a crazy lady from another planet giving them direction and instructions.

Reluctantly they helped turn the living room into Bethlehem and I could hear some of the men using profanities under their breaths while shrugging their shoulders and giving each other sideward glances. But the show must go on and the kids were enjoying getting into their costumes, except for our Baby Jesus. Being totally unaware of the major role he has to play in my Nativity production, Attila was running around with a plastic sword killing off the three wise men.

Armed with a white sheet ( Baby Jesus’ costume), I informed Attila that he was playing the lead role and that he has to lay quietly in the upside down coffee table wrapped in the sheet so that the shepherds and wise men could bring him presents. His reaction was a little bit unexpected.

“I DON’T WANT TO BE BABY JESUS!!! I AM NOT A BABY!! I AM BATMAN!!!

He started to wield his plastic sword at me. Everyone, already in costume and with their props on standby, snapped out of character and tried to persuade Attila to play his part so that they could get this whole charade over and done with as quickly as possible.

He adamantly refused, insisting, at the top of his voice, that he was Batman. Pandemonium ensued. The cast rioted hoping that the play would be aborted and they could go back to their normal lives when Christmas Eve was a time of exchanging presents and sitting down quietly for a festive meal.

I was not giving up. I had actors in costume for heaven’s sake!

I contemplated the parallels between the Batman and Jesus and recalled Batman dangling a mugger over a roof’s edge in the movie with Michael Keaton as Batman saying: “I’m not going to kill you. I want you to do me a favour. I want you to tell your friends about me.”
“Who are you?” the mugger replied nervously.
“I’m Batman.”

So, as a last resort, inspired by the realisation that both Jesus and Batman fought the struggle against evil, I decided to recast Jesus with Attila’s cousin and gave Batman a cameo role in the ‘Birth of Jesus’ scene.

Everything went smoothly according to the Gospels, until Batman jumped off a couch and stabbed one of the wise men with his sword.

I was thinking of doing a Passion Play over the Easter holidays with the Getafixes, but I haven’t heard from them yet.

In the Eye of the Beholder

All of us, living on Planet Gorgeous, or on some other wayward planet - like Earth, experience it at one time or another. I’m talking about those moments when you suddenly realise that you are a bloody idiot; when you want to change your name and move to another country; when you pray to the gods to “take me now!”

The opening of the Contemporary Art Exhibition at the newly renovated City Hall was a grand occasion. Roads were closed. Wine was served in the street in front of the building. There was music. People were dressed to the nines. Speeches. Television cameras. Apart from the gale force wind turning coiffures into catastrophes, a very well planned opening function.

After the speeches were we all ushered into the building to view the art and were greeted by smartly dressed waiters proffering everything from sushi to samoosas. Art fundis were moving from room to room commenting on the art. There were no limitations on the art being displayed: painting, printmaking, photography sculpture, installation, new media, film and performance.

Now with all this creative sensory overload, complimented by crudités and alcohol, one’s discernment can become slightly blurred. Okay, I admit, I’m a performance artist and do not have the expertise to critique art academically, but I know what I like. So there I was savouring and appreciating the works I understood when I encountered a sculpture mounted on a wall with a very clear message.

“Belg!” I shouted to my friend over the noise of hundreds of conferring discerning art lovers. “Come and have a look at this! This artist was bold enough to present his message without hidden metaphors and abstractions. Red and shiny! Just colour and texture and shape, and I love the way he encased the object. Brilliant!”

Suddenly the people around me stopped talking. Some rolled their eyes. Some snickered. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Belg self-consciously snuck up to me and whispered: “Boefie, just walk away quietly. Don’t say another word. You are looking at the fire-extinguisher.”