either or

My response to an optimistic remark about how artists can earn, how there is a ‘ market .’

My art serves either as

1) immediate raw therapy or deep personal truth, which creates uneasy viewers or 1)premeditated strategies to please/arouse the viewer in the hope that it sells, or is loved.

One is true, the other lie. One is viable, the other not. Niches are for the lucky ones. And most true, true artists are either discovered or not, as most artists loathe self promotion and suck with earthly things like money.


I’ve dyed my hair and cut my hair over five times in the last couple of months. Chaos taught me so many things, like morphing my identity, not seeing it as sacred and yet staying true to myself.  What a ride. Like what you dislike, change your name, do what you would never do…changing my hair with each moon cycle.

and here I landed with this cut, settling for the whole “afrikaans lady clocking forty”look

Cry baby

Ive thought about this for many years: what is beauty? 

It is surely death 

When death is near, you love life, it’s beauty and it’s splendour. You think: how can one world be this beautiful? And the beauty overwhelms you like a blanket in the fever. You are standing on Friedrich’s sunset hill and you just wanna cry baby, cry.


Spoke to a friend who calls himself an underachiever. I said yeah, the world doesn’t want interesting, or intelligent, or deep. The more boring and dumbass and ordinary the bigger your chance of success. Like the other day in teambuilding at my dayjob…the instructor asked us to introduce ourselves and tell the rest of the staff something interesting about ourselves. Suzy says ‘I like movies, Johny says ‘I play golf’…and when it was my turn i said “Im into esotericism and i do feminist performance art.” ….like I just fell from another planet.

the same things

Funny how sometimes you get to the conclusion that you did something radical or irrational in moments of madness. It was just being crazy and it’s over now. And then, it all resurfaces. As if a dormant broth, simmering slowly under the covers. And you desire the same things again, want and need the same things again…willing to risk it all for the same things again.

early nineties in SA

wp-1491143125883.jpgFor me, growing up in the eighties, early nineties, in SA, what a mindfucking blast, a beautiful catastrophe. I played the part as the rebel, slutty girl who hated school. And “jags”…as adolescence dictates. It was two years before Apartheid ended, and I was so glad it did, so I could go out and hunt myself some coloured boys who knew how to dance and vry properly.

I religiously kept a diary, intensively, almost each day of my teenage life. A journal, consisting out of written Afrikaans prose, photographs, letters…I would like to open it up, but the chaos, the dust, the let it lie…perhaps not to be opened up at all, but burnt, once again one with the earth from where my experiences grew.

The people we admired, the social standard for beauty are evident in these pages.  And a different boy per page…a list of boys I kissed, the ones with the dots went further than a kiss. Just a Lovesick Afrikaans girls’ pop culture dagboekie.



My first ever car selfie. Waiting and boredom wins.

I haven’t done self portraits in ages. I miss that lady, the one in front of the lens. But she was so weak, at times, so damn weak.  And so damn brave. And so hard ass. and so, so fragile.


So yes, I can draw.

Realistic, sometimes, yes.

But why would I want to?

Draw realistically.


I’m out to offer some

peace/piece of mind.

My mind.

Not bound by any notion

of beauty nor swept away by

the warped tide of image.


2000, sketchbook

the muse

I have a learner who did extremely well in an art competition recently. We sat for hours working on his art work, had endless discussions and really got to know each other. So very special, those hours we spent together.

Quite a while after, we were discussing the prize he had won and he said “…But m’am, I did it for you.” Of course I had to sit him down and have a good, serious talk about how all of this is for him, and only him.

I also had another learner, a few years ago, who stopped drawing because we had a disagreement about something. I felt so uncomfortable in that role: someone who has the power to switch the art on or off.

That’s the problem with being some sort of muse. Inspiring people is a dangerous art. Almost like administrating anesthetic…or a powerful healing hallucinogenic…Eventually the poet or the artist would come out of the creation-trance and then what, look for you to stimulate them again? Or completely give up on the art once inspiration has to flow from other sources or from themselves?

Perhaps a true muse can master the art of igniting a permanent flame that keeps on burning long after her departure.


the poet

There’s this person I really respect and care deeply about.

We have a professional relationship, but a really deep, meaningful one.

I have gone over our written communication to try and figure out where the attachment occurred.

I could never really figure out exactly why I feel such a connection to this man, until one day, he explained the whole phenomenon by saying: “I write poetry.”

I could actually sense the poetry in him from way down beneath our purely professional written communication.

Sense it, you know. Like a fragrance, or the sound of a familiar voice…I just seem to naturally have a poetry detector and if it’s on the same frequency setting as my own radar, deep meaning just start oozing out of everything.

corporeal femme

30da7590495f70b844ba209f8250bf3aI’m a complete “airy fairy” these days.  I was diagnosed with ADHD this year, although I always knew I had it, so actually, I can say I started medication this year.  Starting meds after decades of refusing it, or rebelling against it, or being skeptical about it…it’s a BIG switch.

So the light did go on and many parts of my brain are appreciative and eager receptors of new information now. And of course the elevated dopamine levels in my body changes me and the world outside of myself drastically. A grand shift, I believe, to new understanding. I’ve never been so in tune and open to nature.

So now my tendencies to lean towards ‘new age’ ideas and practices, are also elevated.  That is also perhaps why my blogs have been quiet…I produce very little art when I am not tormented. Lately I’ve been busy teaching and studying and finding ways to incorporate certain metaphysical aspects in my art lessons.

I’ve been a practicing fine artist for almost twenty years now and I’m wondering if this hasn’t really been twenty years of non-chemical therapy; twenty years of low dopamine levels and blocked up chakras.


Ritalin, hypnotherapy and magick have brought on a massive paradigm shift in my life. So bear with me if my posts are going towards a new wave, as I move away from the rawness into something slightly more ethereal and esoteric.

As a feminist, new age spirituality  has always been a direction I was hesitant to go towards. I don’t care for the cheesy, blingy spiritual wall art and fantastical imagery of goddesses and angels. This blog will surely still touch on the real, the corporeal…but Corporeal Femme is opening her third eye nice and wide.




I am the medium.

Complete surrender to experience has to take place to be transported to the place where there’s no time. Power is gained through having none; strength is built by letting go of the self.

I am a medium for learning when I teach. I am a medium for art; a representative; a missionary  throwing seeds of creation in the wind.

I medium for experiences about to happen, that is happening or happened.

It’s pretty cool.


The first time I knew I could channel, I was eighteen, busy painting a self -portrait. That was the first time I felt it: I am the medium.

To arrive at this consciousness now, years after, it is all explained. Now it all has a name, some kind of meaning and explanation.

I’ve thought channeling to be many things: The moon, the stars, the blood in my veins, the rhythm of sunset and sunrise, keeping pace.

It could be letting go, you know. Of it all, of reason, of logic, of language.

It’s a beautiful beautiful thing.



Dear Fake Person,

I think it’s absolutely hysterical.

A spectacle, really. If you know you are a voyeur, a perve, why expose yourself? It’s too absurd. Now I see your photos in the news and I see these tannies swooning over you on social media.

Are you not afraid that one of your forbidden conquests might leave a comment on one of these kiekies and expose you for the absolute perve you are? Are you not afraid of the past catching up on you; afraid of your dark side stealing your limelight?

Voyeurs should stay behind the cloakroom curtains, my friend.  Dark horse voyeurs should take a walk in the woods, write ‘poes’ in the snow, read poetry and stare at young, skinny girls in coffee shops. I fear for you there, under the lights.

You did show me a human side, once, long long ago. That glimpse is the only thing that actually makes me care at all.

Well I always searched for ways to forget about our encounters. Your identity (or lack of one) is perhaps my final ticket out of the space where we once found common ground.

But the question remains: what kept you interested in my art and perhaps my life for so long? It’s not my ‘imperfect body’ as you mentioned, or my ‘imperfect face’. It’s not my ‘ugly’ art and my raw emotional tantrums. What is it that you wanted from me?

The only thing someone like me can ever give someone like you is honesty and perhaps some kind of fucked up friendship. And for a person that apparently has everything, I’m sure you don’t need anything I can ever possibly offer you.

It really is time to say goodbye for good. It would be like losing a suitcase at the airport and realizing you can actually do without the contents and that it was, in fact, just cluttering up your room.

The chaos magicians believe you can banish evil, or anything you’d like really,  by laughing out loud. Maybe now I will take one more look at the fake world you live in and laugh, and banish you forever.


me and armanda

Armanda and I experimenting in 2009. She’s so cool, Armanda, she was so small then. She’s such fun to chill with, and she’s been so involved with my photographic portraits. And she’s so academic, so unlike her mama. My first born wonder.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

this post is not for you (or is it?)

This blog is quite personal. It’s mostly a diary for therapeutic reasons, really, and some art here and there…The thing is some of my readers might think that I write about them when I post something. It’s quite strange, it brings a weird dynamic to the way I have to write things, or express myself, I almost feel I have to filter my posts and that is just not my style.

I draw inspiration from my life to create art; to create this silly little blog. A person in a supermarket might tell me a short story in the queue and I could post something related to that. Or I could watch a movie and a scene could remind of something that happened to me and then I could write something about it etc.

I knew a person who thought all my posts were about him and I got really angry at the idea that I have such self-centered readers. But then I thought about it again and I decided that people who think the posts are for them, or about them: is it such a bad thing?

If someone thinks a post is for them, they might reflect upon something they wouldn’t have, or they might feel a connection to the blog thinking they are characters who feature on the blog, or get some value out of simply thinking I am writing about them.

The web is a very ambiguous place and I’ve had contact with many many people online. Some of my deepest and most meaningful connections were with people I met online (many are my best friends today in ‘real life’ and many are still internet connections), so my posts also carry a real ambiguity.

I think all my words above is a well thought out, diplomatic piece of text that could have replaced a spontaneous and not so diplomatic sentence I recently wrote to someone which was: “You egotistical asshole, not everything I write is about you.”


Dear Diary,

I often transport myself out of places, through the window, out the door, through the ceiling. I am truly present only when there is love, or pain, the two flowers that blend together in a terribly beautiful perfume, enchanting enough to conquer all senses.100_3771100_3775


Some arb mirror photos. Haven’t done these ones in a while.

We are confronted (bombarded) by our own image so many times a day. On our web-profiles, in the mirror before work, in the shop window, our passport photo, selfie-sticks…and so on. And we can recreate ourselves through filters and personas. Maybe one of those utopias that Foucault writes about in his Utopian Body. We can escape the here version of ourselves by image. We don’t know what ‘self’ means anymore. So the term’selfie’ is diminutive for a reason.



Often, when I do a series, I discard many photos.

It’s too disturbing. Or ‘a bit too much’. Or not powerful enough, or whatever. I end up discarding many incredible images.

I found these ones, from my series ‘refuse’, based on many of Foucault’s text on power. In 2014 I went through a black bag phase, fascinated with the nature of the plastic, the way it stretches, they way it’s fragile and can tear easily but at the same time keep things contained.

Here are some images I decided not to put in the series. I like the way my flesh appears super red. The contrast between flesh and plastic.







my new work ‘elixir’


This work explores Feminine Power.

A sigil was created by the artist and then copied onto a ghost image note.

The sigil was placed under a glass jar, where a tiger eye gemstone was charged with feminine power of the artist. A video was made, but at the point of charging the stone, a glitch froze the video, so none of the actual gnosis was captured on video.

The photos that were taken came out normally, although the video appeared altered.

No editing was done to the visual appearance of this video.

This was the process of the whole ritual:

A sigil was created symbolizing female power.

Tiger eye gemstone was charged (but not successfully documented) by the artist and then used to make an elixir.

After consuming drops from the elixir, the artist will meditate until a gnostic state lying down with four tiger eye stones. One under each palm, one on the third eye and the last one in the sacred hollow between her legs.

The sigil will also be charged during this time, by rubbing body fluids on the sigil and activating it by orgasm.

The gemstone and the sigil will be the artifacts for sale.

Below is the first part of the video performance and some photos taken during the process.

Below the initial video file. The whole performance was 4:21 min and only 1:03 min could be captured.


Some shots taken with my ancient blackberry out under the pine trees by theescombe.

We took our daughters to a birthday party there and I chose to speak to pine trees for two hours instead of the other moms.

My senses are so heightened right now, especially my hearing and smell…and Red Jaspers in my pocket pulls me nice and tight towards earth’s belly.

set yourself free

I love spending time with my favourite learner, Prince.

Yes, I have a favourite.

It’s awful, but I do. Have one.

So Prince (he’s 13 now) says to me that school is like slavery.

So I say society is slavery.

And then I say, Prince, the only time you will ever be free, is when you do art. It’s the only place you can ever go where you can be completely free.