A SENSE of HUMID
Danni Diana talks to Skullboy about Durban’s art scene & sexual debuts
IT’S Saturday morning at tattoo bar Lola Malone, and it’s one of those Durban mornings that have you wishing you were in a snow cave. Or an ice tomb. Or any kind of chilly, eternal space far away from the sound of your body sticking against your body. I’m small-talking about the weather because Skullboy is late. Not Naomi late, mind, but it’s just that his battery died, the dog ate his alarm clock, he’ll be there right now and how’s about a Heineken?
In the flesh, Skullboy is more boy than skull: a small, heavily tattooed Enid Blyton river sprite in short shorts and a slight hangover.
He doesn’t know what he’s gonna get tattooed today — something on his arm, maybe, or something on his palms.
Either way, what’s the big deal? It’s just a bit of forever ink. Palms it is. “It’s like no other pain you’ve felt before,” tattoo artist Jono warns. “It’s like a paper cut, but with lemons in it.” Cigarettes are smoked. Designs are stenciled and adjusted, stenciled again. The machine begins to buzz, and it’s time to talk art.
Who is Skullboy?
He’s a designer-slash-artist trying to become an artist-slash-designer.
You’ve signed with New York gallery Baang + Burne. How so?
I came across them through one of my mentors, Richard Hart, who is also signed to the gallery. I guess I dug their vibe and they dug mine.
At your age — 26 — most Durban creatives are leaving (or have left already). Are you sticking around?
Initially, staying here was a lifestyle choice. But unfortunately, for the work I do and the future I want, staying in Durban is just no longer an option. There’s no infrastructure, the money isn’t here. A lot of the art world is luck, and you have to go where the opportunity is to make your own. There have been so many good things that have kept me here, but the time to move is coming. And why not? Much as this place is magical, there is life after 031.
For “You and Me” (a top 10 piece in the 2013 ABSA L’atelier awards) you collected stories of sexual debuts ...
It was through the stupor of a boozy, latenight conversation with friends about our ‘first times’ that I realised not only the importance of retelling my own story, but also to create a chance for others to tell theirs. We have all had a first time, whether good or bad, and there is a special slice of delight in being able to tell your story amidst those of others, to recontextualise them and to see that we are not alone if the experience was less than fulfilling. Through talking about something, we are able to properly absorb a situation, and in a society that is simultaneously sexdriven and sexually repressed, we need to talk to take ownership of whatever it is we’ve been through.
Culture and counterculture are now barely separable. Does counterculture still exist?
This is the age of advertising, so nothing is sacred. Every angle will be used to hawk some or other product, and every dark corner of ‘counterculture’ is being sought out, brought into the light and repackaged for the suburbs. Is counterculture a commercial goldmine? Sure. Does it affect my life choices? Never. The core of ‘counterculture’ for me has always been weird kids seeking out alternatives, looking for likeminded people to do cool shit with. And I don’t think that has changed much. That said, being able to buy short shorts at Mr Price now is pretty handy.
Independent galleries are developing the art scene in Cape Town and Joburg. What’s up in Durban?
Not much. There are various pockets of ‘art scene’ that don’t ever really overlap. There are plenty people out there making a very decent living, but will only be known by a pretty small circle. We need more networking, more joining-of-forces. And money, lots of delicious money.