Street Photography
It began with the mundane: my daily commute to campus from 2017 - 21. I became encompassed with the nothingness of those moments. The strangers, the scenery, the in-between.
What started as casual documentation turned into something more reflective. By photographing fleeting scenes and later reliving them through painterly expression, I realised I wasn’t just observing - I was participating.
A voyeur turned archivist.
But really, these photos aren’t about the technicals. It’s about experience. About the unnoticed, the overlooked, the nostalgia.
Could it feel familiar to you?
Prelude, Context - Artist Statement
I have the privilege of having a unique view of the world, undoubtedly bias. I love South Africa, it’s my home, there’s no place I rather be and that mentality is at the heart of my work. It’s why I won’t pretend to tell stories I don’t feel anchored in.
Why would I half-ass relay a narrative from a perspective I won’t simmer in? Take Britain, for example. I’ve lived here. I’ve spent years absorbing it all - the weather, the politics, the quiet rules no one explains. But I’m not rooted in it. My partner is. I watch him carry the weight of it: the frustration with the system, the chaos of tax, the silent pressure of trying to build a future in a society that’s disconnected from itself.
I join the conversations. I nod, I get it - and I don’t. I’m affected, of course I am. But there’s always a distance. A buffer. Like I’m participating in something temporarily, like a guest who never fully unpacks their suitcase.
This isn’t my home.
And yet, I hear people talk about visiting my home - they’re enamoured by it. As they should be. But their bags? Still zipped. Not even a corner unfolded. I hear their takes on South African politics, the confident commentary with no real context. They think they understand - they pretend they understand, but fail to recognise how much their view is shaped by a society that still embodies a colonial state of mind.
There’s a discomfort. South Africa holds a mirror up to Western nations: race, class, colonialism, capitalism all playing out in concentrated, exposed form. It’s easier to look down than to look inward.
The UK broadcasts about a struggle they’ve never tasted. Pot calling the kettle black - yes, I’m aware. But it urks me. It’ll ruin my week and stew in my mind. How dare they try to tarnish my home with ignorant blabbing? It’s a flaw of mine, I know.
I’ll see a 10 pence from every side - but a 50 cent? I only see the crane flower.
My home's flaws are part of the glue - pride, protest and “ag, that’s life hey” entangled together.
One day, I’ll unpack. But not yet.