Tafelberg Short: Heart of Dickness. Andrew Donaldson

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      On a Tuesday morning in May 2012, two men unknown to each other and acting independently of one another entered the Goodman Gallery in Parkwood, Johannesburg, and defaced The Spear, a painting of President Jacob Zuma with his genitals exposed.

      As it happened, a television crew was also in the gallery, preparing a report on the painting that, in terms of the sound bites of the hour, was tearing the nation apart. They captured the vandalism on camera. A middle-aged white man painted a red cross over the penis in the portrait, and then another over the face. It was, he would later remark, his spoilt ballot paper from the last general election. Then a young black man hurriedly smeared black paint over the work before he was stopped and overpowered by a security guard.

      eNews showed the footage throughout the day. There was some speculation on Twitter that the white man had been hired by the artist, Brett Murray, to deface his painting as part of a publicity stunt. It was, in retrospect, a laughable suggestion. Controversy over the painting had dominated headlines at home and abroad; the ruling party and the presidency were taking Murray and the gallery to court in a bid to ban the painting; high-ranking members of the ruling African National Congress (ANC) had publicly branded Murray a racist; and a church leader had demanded he be stoned to death. Did Murray need or even want more publicity?

      At the time, however, it was entirely plausible that this had been a set-up. It was performance art, was one suggestion. According to the tweets, it was all too neat, too rehearsed. Look at how calmly the white man had acted. He casually went about attacking the painting, in the presence of security guards, and then he was allowed to walk away when he was finished. The black man, of course, wasn’t in on the act. He wasn’t supposed to be there. That’s why he was assaulted by the security guard who arrested him. The white man wasn’t assaulted, you see?

      If anyone in this drama could be described as seeking publicity, however, then it would be that white man.

      He was first identified as an unnamed arts lecturer from Pretoria, but it turned out Barend la Grange was a 58-year-old ‘internet businessman’ from Kempton Park who listed political commentary among his hobbies and who had kept a blog on the 2009 general elections. He made local headlines in 2010 when he placed For Sale signs next to potholes on roads in his neighbourhood. He later told reporters he had copied the idea from the mayor of a cash-strapped German town who sold potholes for R5 000 each to raise funds for their repair. According to one newspaper, there was such an ‘oversupply’ of potholes in Kempton Park, though, that La Grange had wanted to sell them at R1 each. He felt that, with the publicity, local authorities would be compelled to repair the roads.

      La Grange would later reveal in a television interview that he had in fact approached the Goodman Gallery with a view to staging an attack on The Spear. The day before the vandalism, he had presented gallery staff with the bizarre proposal that he be permitted to place a replica of the painting next to the original and paint over that rather than deface Murray’s work. But, as he told eNews’s Iman Rappetti, the gallery hadn’t returned his email or telephone call. He maintained they were aware of his plans.

      In the same interview, he tried to explain why he nevertheless went ahead with his attack on the painting. It may well be editorial policy at eNews to allow interviewees to answer questions but Rappetti’s hectoring, interrupting interview style suggested otherwise. We can only guess at what La Grange was trying to say: The Spear was a racial issue.

      That was not in doubt – the secretary general of the ANC, Gwede Mantashe, had said as much. This had upset La Grange, because as an Afrikaans-speaking white man, he didn’t want to be seen as a supporter of Apartheid. He recognised the artist’s right to freedom of expression. He also knew it was wrong to damage the property of others. This, however, was the lesser of the two transgressions because he believed he was defusing a racial situation.

      He also felt he had a duty to ‘cover’ the painting, as he put it, because President Jacob Zuma and his family had asked the gallery to remove The Spear. This appeal apparently spoke directly to La Grange’s sense of patriotism, and he began to explain: ‘If I, as a South African, can’t respect somebody else’s wish – and he could be anyone, it doesn’t matter if he’s Mr Zuma …’ But Rappetti cut him off once more with another scolding about taking the law into his own hands and so we may never know what he really was on about.

      La Grange did manage to make it clear that, while he admired the government, he was no supporter of Jacob Zuma. In 2009 he blogged, ‘Leaders must command respect and values that a proud nation would want to identify with. Mr Zuma and his leaders are not such leaders, and for that matter, a split in the ANC is very welcome.’

      In another posting, La Grange revealed a deep conservatism, calling on Christians to become more involved in politics. It would benefit everyone, he claimed, if Christians practised their ‘morals and values’ in the political arena. ‘In the Bible, the issue of governments is a big one … I would much rather see more “Josephs” and “Daniels” in our government, Biblical figures who held top political positions and had a remarkable impact on the government and population of their time.’

      And what of The Spear’s other vandal? Admittedly, I was a little disturbed at first that 25-year-old Louis Mabokela was a taxi driver, and sourly wondered whether the taxi industry had stepped up its activities in safeguarding the nation’s moral values and moved on from sexually assaulting mini-skirt wearing women in the streets to destroying troublesome art.

      Mabokela, described as a ‘soft-spoken man’ from Limpopo, had seen pictures of the painting in newspapers, but with the genitals covered, so he decided to travel to Johannesburg and visit the gallery to see The Spear for himself. The painting had angered him. ‘It’s an insult,’ he later said. ‘[Zuma] is a parent.’ He left the gallery to buy the paint, which cost him R180. Although La Grange had beaten him to it, Mabokela nevertheless began smearing the painting upon his return. Later, and before his brief appearance in the Hillbrow Magistrate’s Court, he claimed that he was proud of what he had done. ‘I feel free because the president is covered already.’

      Mabokela’s action cost him his job. He had lied about being ill and had taken sick leave in СКАЧАТЬ