Jan Hoek photographs members of society’s most scorned groups—sex workers, the homeless, the addicted […]. Hoek traveled to Cape Town, where he got to know members of the city’s transgender sex worker community.
Fashion designer Duran Lantink
created couture based upon the South African women’s visions, and Hoek
photographed them wearing the outfits. The portraits are presented at
the Gashouder as part of Amsterdam’s fashion week, and will later be
featured in VICE Magazine.
- That they are trans sex worker is just a side-issue, [sais Hoek] we worked with them
because of their buzzling sense of style. Although we do think it is
nice from this project that next to the fashion part it also shows the
lives of girls who have lives so different than most of us have. And
that we hope it shines new bright light on these girls that are normally
only in the media in a negative way.
noem twee woorden: een met de mooiste betekenis en een met de lelijkste/engste
Bijna en bijna. Het is het woord wat het mooiste op aarde kan zijn; bijna daar, bijna blij, bijna boven, bijna gelukkig, wanneer je eindelijk kan genieten van de weg er naar toe, wanneer je weet dat je nu nog slechts één hoek om moet. Het is ook het engste woord op aarde; bijna daar, bijna blij, bijna boven, bijna gelukkig, wanneer je zo dichtbij bijna was en het laatste stukje niet meer haalde.
According to their myth of origin, South Africa’s prison gangs were founded by two nineteenth century bandits, Nongoloza and Kilikijan. They were young and black and proud, and they became bandits because stealing the white man’s gold was better than going underground to dig it up.
Eventually, the myth continues, both were hunted down and captured. Together, they invented a language fit for a life of captivity. Being men of the caves and the hills, their prison language bore their fantasies of the outdoors. Everything expanded. A day was called a year. An overcrowded cell became a vast Highveld plain. But to prevent themselves from being carried away into madness, they reminded themselves every day that they were in fact binne Die Vier Hoeke, and not Umjiegwana – outside. These two concepts became the touchstones of their language.
Today, in 2006, the relationship between language and place has been folded inside out. On the streets of the Cape Flats, the words of Die Vier Hoeke [”The Four Corners”, i.e. prison] are used to talk of Umjiegwana. Young men describe the politics and spaces of their ghettos in prison language; neighbourhoods thus become jails, each piece of drug turf a massive prison cell of the initiated.
The reason for this inversion is simple. South Africa has become a society of mass incarceration, which means that many young men are bound to spend the first two decades of their adult lives in and out of prison by virtue of where they grew up. In their neighbourhoods, Die Vier Hoeke and Umjiegwana have been mixed up, for they have come to form equal parts of lived experience.
On the day the apartheid government ceded power in April 1994, South Africa’s prisons housed 116,000 people. A decade later to the day, 184,000 people were behind bars in a system designed to hold 114,000. About four out of five of these people will spend the first half of their adult lives in and out of prison, taking Umjiegwana to Die Vier Hoeke, and Die Vier Hoeke to Umjeigwana.
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