kagablog

Gadgets of destruction depict a new generation of oppressors, writes Mary Corrigall

It is with surprise that one notes the dates when Willie Bester’s artworks were executed. With overt visual and conceptual references to the mechanics of war, one expects to find that they were conceived during the apartheid era and belong to that esteemed brand of visual expression tagged “resistance art”. Yet as much as Bester’s contorted metal assemblages and makeshift machines of destruction appear to hail from an era defined by violence, they were in fact conceived during this post-apartheid epoch.

One might argue that Bester’s preferred vocabulary - intricate disused metal assemblages - is more suited to a post-apocalyptic aesthetic, compelling him to persist with art that speaks of the dehumanisation and brutality of an entrenched cycle of violence. But it seems more likely, given that he also has a penchant for depoliticised portraiture and still lifes (if one believes that an artwork can ever be divorced from its sociopolitical context) that he simply believes that the cycle of violence set in motion by the apartheid state continues to pervade this era too.

Bester certainly hasn’t had to delve too deep into the psyche of our society to discover this ugly truth. One of his seminal works, Who Let the Dogs Out? (2001), is based on news footage that revealed local policemen to be training their dogs by letting them loose on African immigrants. Unfortunately, this artwork is not on this exhibit and although none of the artworks on this show are known to be reproductions of real-life events, the deeply entrenched nature of violence that his art expresses resonates with our crime-ridden society. In other words, his work no longer needs to draw from real-life events to ring true.

Long Walk to Freedom (2006), which portrays Nelson Mandela’s triumph over oppression, doesn’t necessarily embrace a euphoric tone. His iconic face is the lone emblem of transcendence in a montage weighed down by depictions of police brutality and the dehumanisation of imprisonment. The artwork mostly consists of disused metal fashioned to represent the cold, impersonalised jail cells Mandela inhabited during his 27 years of incarceration. In itself, this artwork appears to be a trite representation of a South African hero that would be more fittingly exhibited in a museum setting or reception area of a corporation wanting to align itself with a politically correct ethos. Nevertheles, in the context of this exhibition, it provides an ironic counterpoint to the struggle era and its rhetoric, which, incidentally, is only now manifesting in political spheres.

The Child Soldier (2008) series of sculptures, for example, depicting pint-sized combatants, suggests that a new generation of oppressors has sprung up to perpetuate a twisted system of governance. Fashioned from scrap metal that is used to summon the visual character of jail cells in Long Walk to Freedom, there is a strong visual link between the two bodies of work, implying that the roots of our current predicament can be traced back to our brutal past.

Child soldiers also provide the ideal metaphor through which to explore the loss of naivety that has gripped the country in these vexed political times. Although youths are more impressionable and are therefore more easily influenced, the corruption of a society’s youth implies that the soul of a nation and its future are under threat.

It is a haunting message that is further compounded by the ease with which these diminutive soldiers wield power. Their relaxed deportment suggests that they are accustomed to the unpalatable tasks that their position demands. Violence has become so commonplace to them that their expressions bear no traces of apprehension or regret.

Bester illustrates a culture of destruction with the large makeshift machines that characterise Staatkundige Ontwikkeling (State Development) (2003) and Bible and a Gun (2007).

Both of these metal assemblages consist of disused machine parts and a multitude of neglected objects from old toys to broken watches that have all been forged together to create dysfunctional machines. Underscoring the impact of South Africa’s trauma-tic past on its present state, Bester suggests that the detritus of previous society has given rise to a new corrupt system.

Although Bester’s machines recall those rudimentary gadgets from the Victorian era, they don’t have the same charm; a protruding chute delivers uniform misshapen, armless effigies of people into a basket.

Bester once quipped that his art was like “bad medicine”, referring to an unpleasant but necessary process. This exhibition offers some unpalatable mouthfuls that taste all too familiar.

Willie Bester shows at The Goodman Gallery in Johannesburg until November 15
this article first published in the sunday independent of 9 november 2008