A cat’s eyes feral and luminous crowns this carnival of cut-outs. A badly drawn man, erratic in ink and clutching a baton stands amidst swathes of suited businessmen.
Hands make wings, ears and antlers, eyes make mouths, agape and colgate toothy.
Mutilated fashion models, moisturised men with designer stubble wince through wrinkled cynical eyes. A Korean film actress with diaphanous (glass and a half) skin and purple angel wings is rendered speechless by pair of ill fitting lips.
A sixteenth century Galleon tilts in tempestuous turquoise seas while a light house (locked in a small white room with the window open) is wondering where to shine its light.
A soldier, solemn in sepia, guards the stoep to Olive Shcreiner’s dappled yard. Carnage collects on the outskirts, bombed out Bosnian brick-work torn from an old Newsweek magazine and a half built barn (somewhere in the karoo) with its beams exposed, lets the night stars in.
A blond mopped boy chases himself through a Japanese lino wood-cut wood while his perplexed elder self surveys its future wasteland.
Torn shreds of city light, chunks of urban cosmos, rise from the earth.
Josephine Baker wearing melting falsies and cabaret grin emerges from the top-hat of a cycloptic toff while a grim faced Werner Hertzog tries on a pair of Gene Kelly’s eyes and resorts to making roaring grizzlies tap-dance for their supper.
