Suddenly I recall some lady speaking at the opening of the Sasol New Signatures prize last year. She was some representative from Sasol who had a clear bias toward photographic works and as I recall also has a history of working in a printing facility or some newspaper press…the anecdote I recall is her nostalgic recollection of the smell of the printing press early in the morning. The ink stench rising through the floor from the basement where the presses were laboring. And I remember imagining a scenario - not much unlike a documentary on child labour - of these pour skinny creatures working the presses under the oppression of some leather clad dominatrix with whips and chains. (the imagery most likely caused by some other art work on show, a piece with similar subject matter).
So now as I sit on my haunches printing face after face to compile in a book of faces I ponder as I smell the scent of printing ink, where is the whip that keeps me working? And more interestingly perhaps; who are those waiting to be whipped by my work? Well we will have to wait and wonder just a while more.
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