Summertime

You called it enjoying the ease of summer. At the moment, it feels neither easy, nor summery. More like I am simmering in my own sweat when I am not allowed to sweat. You see, there are two very expensive stickers on my back, containing fourteen chemicals often used in cosmetics. This patch test stays on for three days, during which they cannot become wet. So all showering, swimming, and sweating of any sort, is out. It is advised to bath. I like my water streaming down, not sitting in a cold pool of it. But it is only three days. Hopefully after that the mystery allergy that sneaks up on me on occasion can be identified and avoided. 

In general, spring and autumn speak more to my sensibilities than the overwhelming heat of summer and the lack of heat during winter. The inbetweens are more my thing. Summer is fantastic. The time of Christmas vacations, road trips to the coast, fresh fruit, seeing family and friends, drinking too much, going out too much, tanning and relaxing in as little clothes as possible whilst holding some kind of pink cocktail.

However, it also encompasses the dreaded search for a bathing suit. This year I have started early so that I can fail more often. I really don't understand how it can be this difficult. I mean, the entire Gauteng goes to occupy the coast during December, so I assume there are boatloads of swimming costumes needed. However, all the stores have either stamp-sized nipple covers for tweens, or they have black dress-suits aimed at anyone that is older than 40. So you can either go almost naked, or looking like an elephant in a tutu. 

Not to out myself as a pervert, but I have observed that lots of South African women are large-chested (well, many are just large in general, seeing as that we are the world's #3 most obese nation). I assume that most ladies don't want their assets drooping, seeking shelter under their armpits or jumping out of their bikini tops like whales attempting to break some breaching record. I further assume that supported chesticles are more flattering than un-supported ones. So why the hell can the stupid stores not make any swimsuits that don't look like they were made either for grandmothers or people who have not yet hit puberty? 

If you are a smaller chested lady, well, I am jealous. All those brightly patterned triangles must be fun to wear. Even just the plain black bikinis look great when everything is not falling by the wayside. So this year, I will either be tanning in the nude, or wear my bra to the beach. 

* Sidenote: I did find a black creation which does not make me look like a corseted hippopotamus in heat. High 5. 

hahahaha

Wednesday was the final battle. The same lady comes every year from Bloemfontein to see if our French is up to par and give the final stamp of approval. Since my first year I have had some aversion towards her, but luckily I've learnt to smile and nod and wait for her to finish asking a question that is hidden somewhere in her ten minute elaboration on my dissertation. It all went fine. Now I am donedonedonedonedonedone. It is exhilarating and anxiety-inducing at the same time, this not knowing what and where and when and how.

Until the future and I see eye-to-eye, here are my summer reads, courtesy of one last meander through the university's library:

1. Aravind Adiga: The White Tiger (2008) 

2. Carson McCullers : The heart is a lonely hunter (1940)

3. J.P. Singh: Globalized Arts (2011)

4. Frank Rose: The Art of Immersion (2011)
      or a review on The Guardian

5. Ilija Trojanow: Der Weltensammler (2006)

6. Irvine Welsh: Trainspotting (1993)

7. Anna Gavalda: Ich wünsche mir, daß irgendwo jemand auf mich wartet  (1999: Je voudrais que quelqu'un m'attende quelque part)

8. Anton Harber: Diepsloot (2011)

9. John Kinsella: Peripheral Light (2004)

10. Marjane Satrapi: Persepolis ( 2003)

Codex

This guy Michael and I share mutual friends and therefore our paths cross on occasion. Also, he is in his final year of Graphic Design, and I am in my final year of Visual Studies, and we both fall under the Visual Arts, so we've had a few overlapping classes. Last week the designers had their final year exhibition, and I was extremely surprised at what they could actually do. In class they formed this arrogant entity that swerved in five minutes late and looked down at everyone that did not do information design. After the exhibit (and obsessive verbal diarrhoea  about how awesome Michael is) a friend asked that if the designers could do all of these things, what had I spent my last four years on? My answer was: "Looking". I can look at things really well.

Visual Studies is not a glamorous field of study. You won't find a job as a visual studier, whatever that may be. You most likely won't earn a lot of money, ever. In fact, I have been told to not get married to anyone who did a BA, but should rather cast my love-net towards engineers and others who will actually earn some moolah so that I can continue looking at things. You need to be flexible, and to be willing to adapt to where you find employment. The law, engineering, finance, all of that is like this : [ ]. It fits nicely, there are rules and equations and things that bring order to the world. Looking is like this : __|~~~~|#|~~|~___``````+/~|~+°°|
It is a combination of signs and it is up to you to choose what it could mean, to interpret what line and shape and colour form.

On Thursday I handed in my dissertation. It is done. Now just write the French dissertation and wait for the December holidays to begin and mangos to be back in season. C'mon mangos. Come back to me.

Here are some images from the Exposure exhibit by the Information Design 4th years of the University of Pretoria.

Tanya van Tilburg

Did I let you know

This is just to say

I have eaten 
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving 
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


William Carlos Williams


Summer holidays/ December holidays are all about doing nothing, tanning, reading and having no plans. But to me, they are also the time of fruit. Supersweet nectarines. Peaches. Plums. Grapes. Thick slices of watermelon with the juice running down your face. Ah, and the winner: Mangoes. Saving the pit for last and then, again, diving in with the juice all over your cheeks. Maybe I am just an excessively messy eater of fruit, but I like how tangible the flesh is, how fresh the taste, how much summer remains in a mouthful.

In France my summer highlight was to buy a bag of cherries, sit on the edge of the Île de la Cité, facing westwards, and having a far-spitting competition with myself into the Seine. We may be blessed with an abundance of tropical fruit, like mangos and pawpaws, but they have the berries. And purple figs. Hmmmmm. Purple figs. My kryptonite.