Transmission
The southerly wind is blowing and the swell has dropped and cleaned up. My brush dragging across the dried shapes from the previous layers reveals an unexpected transition. I need to get in the water and I have a feeling there might be a small wave I can ride near the harbour. I scraped down my mixing table, made some notes and packed my surf gear into the car.
Shadows reach for the succulents and fynbos, signalling to me that I have a couple of hours before heading back home. The wind direction is great for this surf spot, the coast rising and bending the wave following its contour. Looking out, the wave breaks from the left running off the rocks and depending on the conditions, the wave can shift direction once it runs its course, reforming toward the rocks closer to the beach, the paddle out is relaxed, sometimes.
Climbing into my fossilised wetsuit, waxing my board a nostalgic scent ignites and unfurls friends and family history growing up together and surfing parts of the South African coast, now playing out above a smile. Afloat, cold waters at bay, with each stroke my hands penetrate, sink, the revealing current asserts itself, reorienting my forgetting. Ease settles the longer they're submerged, charged as they rise, fingers distort, again. A dark shape appears in my periphery, ripples pulsate so do I, surfacing, its whiskers light up, gone. Incoming swells revealing its silhouette and scale, adolescence. Swinging my 9’3 longboard I paddle, spring to my feet, like an oyster catcher moving from one rock to another, wind weaves as the ocean streams between my toes with every adjustment. Pulling out and paddling back to the take off location, I noticed the current that usually acts as an assist after ending the wave ride, isn't as prevalent, slowly I drift. I’m getting a bit older, perhaps even lazy, I’m working on that, a few more waves.
Board on my head, over the dislodged mussels, stabbing the soles of my feet, I head towards the car, my towel hanging, secured by the closed window, its fibres warming, bringing a sense of relief. My pace increases, the bounce in my step revealing the wax now fused to my hair. Packing the car, sea spray ascends, so does the elusive shape, this one is different, larger, huge actually, jumping repeatedly, disappearing for some time, then reappearing with seemingly youthful exuberance. Where do they go and what do they encounter?
Shadows soften as the light penetrates the moisture in the air, applying another layer dissolving the tonal structures. My mind reenacts the gesture, another Cathedral painting almost done? I merge with a cloud of aromas. My partner Nats is cooking. A tree limb extends, my wetsuit and towel an effigy swaying salty water pooling. This cloud persists, Nats is designing a new recipe, an ingredient that has intrigued her, considering ways to not disrupt her unyielding resolve, it feels familiar, curious, I make a quick snack and head for a seat near the fire place, the sun dips, golden hues vibrate, carrying me back to the studio.
OLD LIGHT — 06
2026
Archival pigment print
Edition of 7 + 2 AP
Image Size: 406 x 508mm
Sheet Size: 466 x 588mm
Frame & Mount: Suggested
It's been over a year of developing this archive along the shore, pairing the images has become another way at homing in on the transmission, I'm curious about what the pairings reveal. Sipping cold coffee from an earlier painting session, I adjust and roll my chair forward opening the project folder as the light from my monitor illuminates a darkened room. One by one, I travel through the archive, with no coordinates, keeping an eye for where the surface is displaced. There's a release in the image of this particular bird, which I hesitate to even mention because I don't want to narrow it down to any particular bird. The animals hold something I'm still trying to understand. I continue through the ripples on the surface, but nothing surfaces. This might be it. Light descending, a tremor opens up. Walking around the studio, light falling off, I reach for dried paint brushes scrubbing the palm of my hand, my mind wanting to collapse and name the pair, I must resist. I decided to bother Nats with random ramblings and chill outside watching the afterglow and stars appear.
I struggled to sleep that night, my mind cycling through the images I'd collected over the past months. This is the pairing, I can feel it, a slight discomfort in not knowing why, an excitement in returning to it, like cycling through the line-up waiting for waves and being surprised.
On Practice — a series of writing on process, place, and the making of work. Get new entries in On Practice, plus occasional notes from the studio, sent monthly. Sign up
