I

T started on Facebook. A friend wrote that he had encountered the “sculptor/ woodcarver” at the corner in Vredehoek where he hangs out. I answered, perhaps provocatively, “I think calling him a sculptor/ woodcarver is a step too far, even for a lefty.”

This man, who I had often seen and thought crazy, as he chopped at wood with a blunt kitchen knife, turned out to have admirers.

I was thrown some major shade by the prickly and pretentious. “What would you prefer to call him, Lin?” was one response. “When was sanity a prerequisite for creative work?”

And then the voice of sanity did indeed surface. Margie Blake: “I’ve bought his work a few times. He is psychologically ill, but works persistently to support himself and express his creativity. His work is wonderful — it just sells so fast you have to be in the right place at the right time to buy it. I’ve had conversations with him and found him lovable . . .”

I decide to investigate. He is a familiar sight as he diligently chops wood; his cascade of braids