About "Well, as a result..."
by
Jo-Anne Green
1987-1989
Mixed Media Installation
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"Well, as a result
of pain, there are some
Who are born, others grow, still others die,
And others who are not born nor do they die (they are the majority)."
– César Vallejo (1)
Locating the boundary between the personal and the political is not possible: it does not exist. Our culture is gradually morphing away from dualisms, dichotomies and binaries to embracing nuance, complexity, and flow. As science uncovers the emergent properties of living organisms — their co-dependencies and interconnectedness — we're learning that it is not possible to draw distinctions between Self and Other because they co-mingle to such an extent that they continually leak into and out of one another's properties. This series is about gold miners laboring under Apartheid laws in South Africa. It is also a coming out story intended to reveal my sexual orientation (lesbian) by literally transitioning between two- and three-dimensional narrative devices. The/my body grows out of the canvas. The/my body transforms from a "flat" pictorial illusion into a sculpted, 3D "real." The/my body's translation from trace to cast marks the birth of our collective empowerment: the miners and their trade unions — which wielded great organizing power and potent activism — mask the underlying otherness of my Self, no longer a shadow but a fully formed individual indistinguishable from her social, cultural and political body. – Jo-Anne Green, October 12, 2024
Series One (1-9)
To a young Johannesburg-born child, the majestic goldmine dumps that dotted the outskirts of the city inspired little more than curiosity as to why grass was planted in neat rows along the sides of them and how the rock became fine gold dust. In school, I was taught that miners were guided through maze-like tunnels by small flashlights attached to their hard-hats, that canaries were carried with them — their deaths a sign that oxygen was running out. I also remember photographs of black miners pressed against pounding drills, sweat running in streams from their dust-masked eyes and deafened ears. Elevators hurtled two miles down into pitch-blackness, their passengers returning twelve hours later, numb with heat and exhaustion, aching with hunger and thirst — sometimes into night, sometimes long dead…

1200 men are injured and 600 killed in mining accidents each year.

… the elevators spit their passengers into the loneliness of night. Men drag themselves through rows of indistinguishable buildings, walk beside endless rows of concrete beds, finally reaching #68, #576, #1267. Aching bodies lie down dreaming of vast open spaces, star-strewn skies, and silences interrupted only by the soft breath of wife, mother, son, lover.

Most miners see their families for only three weeks of each year. The shaft heads of those Johannesburg mines still remain. Only they and their apartheid victims know the severity and the costliness of a system that renders human life worthless while simultaneously producing unfathomed wealth for the privileged few. – Jo-Anne Green, 1987
Series 2 (10-13)
We approached Noria Mabasa's home on foot, winding our way through other peoples' yards to hers, which lay on the edge of dry earth, thorny scrub and blue sky. We were oblivious intruders, entering the womb of a woman who had long ago lost her husband to the mines, and more recently to the hands of murders on a dark township street. Noria greeted us dressed in mourning; the sadness in her eyes was unavoidable and yet we stayed.

The entrance to Noria's home was flanked on either side by clay female figures; their backs turned to the outside world, they compelled us to enter the ‘safe’ space over which they watched. The sculptures were raw, eroded by wind and sun, crumbling, yet assuring in their postures. A large clay policeman, planted in flowering shrubs, protected Noria’s room which stood to the right of the courtyard. Many smaller policemen lay scattered in the brush behind the house, camouflaged by dust, disguised by the chickens perched on their shoulders; more chickens fluttered around a mound of shards, relics or trash, or both. Around the corner, a small clay man in a black suit leaned against a low wall, his painted head cracked open to reveal his earthy skin. Noria, it seems, has been persuaded to ‘dress’ her figures as colonial ‘types’ — businessmen and clergymen inhabit craft stores, galleries, museums and private homes.

Since the time of my visit, the reddish-brown clay walls have been adorned with colorful, organic shapes. The entranceway figures have been replaced by two new figures: on the left, a woman, naked except for a small beaded apron; on the right, a male city-dweller clothed in suit and hat. Noria’s rural presence is united with her husband’s urban absence. – Jo-Anne Green, 1988
Source
(1) This translated section of "Nine Monsters" was found sometime in the 1980s. I can no longer locate the source of this particular version, but here's an alternate one with the entire poem in Spanish:
"Following pain
Some are born, others grow, still others die,
Further still, others are born and don't die, others
Die before they are even born, still others
Are neither born nor die (they're the majority)."
– César Vallejo
"The old world is dying away, and the new world struggles to come forth: now is the time of monsters." Gramsci
Los Nueve Monstruos
Y, desgraciadamente,
el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato,
crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso,
y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces
y la condición del martirio, carnívora voraz,
es el dolor dos veces
y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor
dos veces
y el bien de ser, dolernos doblemente.

Jamás, hombres humanos,
hubo tanto dolor en el pecho, en la solapa, en la cartera,
en el vaso, en la carnicería, en la aritmética!
Jamás tanto cariño doloroso,
jamás tan cerca arremetió lo lejos,
jamás el fuego nunca
jugó mejor su rol de frío muerto!
Jamás, señor ministro de salud, fue la salud
más mortal
y la migraña extrajo tanta frente de la frente!
Y el mueble tuvo en su cajón, dolor,
el corazón, en su cajón, dolor,
la lagartija, en su cajón, dolor.

Crece la desdicha, hermanos hombres,
más pronto que la máquina, a diez máquinas, y crece
con la res de Rousseau, con nuestras barbas;
crece el mal por razones que ignoramos
y es una inundación con propios líquidos,
con propio barro y propia nube sólida!
Invierte el sufrimiento posiciones, da función
en que el humor acuoso es vertical
al pavimento,
el ojo es visto y esta oreja oída,
y esta oreja da nueve campanadas a la hora
del rayo, y nueve carcajadas
a la hora del trigo, y nueve sones hembras
a la hora del llanto, y nueve cánticos
a la hora del hambre y nueve truenos
y nueve látigos, menos un grito.

El dolor nos agarra, hermanos hombres,
por detrás, de perfil,
y nos aloca en los cinemas,
nos clava en los gramófonos,
nos desclava en los lechos, cae perpendicularmente
a nuestros boletos, a nuestras cartas;
y es muy grave sufrir, puede uno orar…
Pues de resultas
del dolor, hay algunos
que nacen, otros crecen, otros mueren,
y otros que nacen y no mueren, otros
que sin haber nacido, mueren, y otros
que no nacen ni mueren (son los más)
Y también de resultas
del sufrimiento, estoy triste
hasta la cabeza, y más triste hasta el tobillo,
de ver al pan, crucificado, al nabo,
ensangrentado,
llorando, a la cebolla,
al cereal, en general, harina,
a la sal, hecha polvo, al agua, huyendo,
al vino, un ecce-homo,
tan pálida a la nieve, al sol tan ardio!
¡Cómo, hermanos humanos,
no deciros que ya no puedo y
ya no puedo con tanto cajón,
tanto minuto, tanta
lagartija y tanta
inversión, tanto lejos y tanta sed de sed!
Señor Ministro de Salud; ¿qué hacer?
¡Ah! desgraciadamente, hombres humanos,
hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer.
Los Nueve Monstruos is part of Poemas Humanos, published posthumously after César Vallejo's death, in 1939. "César Vallejo's Nine Monsters: Translated by us," Silens Loquor, July 27, 2014
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