FRIEDA OLLEMANS  – sculptor supreme

I don’t remember her that well.  But I remember the whisky-and-cigars voice, and the eyes that saw everything through the lens of irony.  Her dress … well, she didn’t pander to fashion.  Yes, you couldn’t escape it — there was a bohemian rising out of the late years of modernism.  Her husband Helmut was, in the words of someone who considered Helmut an enemy, “the most professional wine farmer in the Western Cape.”  And Helmut supported every hammer, every chisel, every chip of cedar wood or ebony, everything that Frieda did, because Frieda was an artist.  That’s what you did with artists.



Born in 1915, Frieda studied sculpture under H.V. Meyerovitz in Cape Town in the early-1930s.  She went on to an award-winning career at the Slade School in London for three years.  On her return to Cape Town in 1940, she made marionettes for puppet theatre as well as pioneering childrens art centres in  the Western Cape.  The Frank Joubert Centre in Stellenbosch is an example.

Wood nymph

She had exhibitions in South Africa and abroad.  Some of her work was displayed in the Museum of Modern Art in New York as well as in Chicago.

                The Dancer

Her first one-person exhibition was held in Stellenbosch in 1972.  She presented pieces in ebony, teak, cedar wood, olive wood and lead.  Unlike any artist I’ve known she had notices up amongst the works:  Please Touch the Sculptures.  For me, there are few instances in the history of art more sacred than that.

       Woman – Bearer of life

              A figure for Mutti

It was a huge price to pay, but I clenched my teeth and did it.  And I have it yet — a figure by Frieda.  Her work for me is harmonious as well as being braced against an obvious realism.  The lines flow.  I once heard her say, The wood tells me what it must become.  And it’s in the organic design, never unsettling, never stark and hard-edged, always leading the eye easily, sensuously to surprising detail.  The finish is immensely satisfying.  You ponder these pieces.  I have pondered mine for more than forty-five years.   Those who inherit what I have will ponder it too, as will their grandchildren and those beyond.

                Figure by Frieda

                Figure by Frieda


© Will van der Walt

Bridgewater, Somerset West

August, 2017



With special thanks to Süsse Bakker who provided the biographical information.

With thanks to Miki Flockemann.


Odysseus, Wood nymph – Süsse Bakker

Remaining images – my photographs






Portrait of a kiss as a windscreen wiper

From my puppyhood I learnt you kiss Daddy.  In that second decade, the use remained and yet not.  I began to see that there were different practices in different families and then different regions, cultures, other countries.  I think about this here in France where people kiss one another like windscreen wipers, and yet not everyone.  The social codes seem to dart around – understand me if you can!   I notice that the President of America (Obama) applied this windscreen wiper to diplomats and politicians in the Middle East.  I wonder if it is catching.

                  Windscreen Wiper Left

                  Windscreen Wiper Right

I’m adapting.  (That’s me with the white hair.  The man is Stéph, Claudie’s son.)  After some years, I wonder how long it takes.  These customs have been scrutinized in academic circles for quite some time.  The Anglo-Saxon cultures find the Latin encroachment on their proxemic space difficult to accept.  In my years teaching township children I was force fed.  There, the concept of “space between people” is entirely different.

The windscreen wiper in France between men will probably be judged as taboo in South Africa.  When my friend fetches me at Cape Town airport, he can relax after the barrier of a handshake has been set up!  Interesting how cultures can diverge on such basic things.  For the Frenchman and the Spaniard (to a lesser extent) the windscreen wiper greeting is part of the day, part of the centuries.  The Anglo-Saxon has dark associations with it  −  it is simply not a manly thing to do.  It will be interesting for me if Norwegians, Swedes or Danes could prove me wrong.

The world is a big place.


©  Will van der Walt

Les Semboules, Antibes

July, 2017



My curiosity.



Photographs taken by Claudie Mader  and used with her permission.




CAPE TOWN ANTIBES a homage plait

                  Les Remparts Antibes

“Everything here radiates, all blossoms, all sings. The sun, the woman, the love are there at home. I still have the resplendence in the eyes and in the soul. ” – Victor Hugo (1802-1885), poet, novelist, playwright.  Written 30 years after his stay in Antibes.

                Cape Town by Hoffnung, 1750

This cape is the most stately thing and the fairest cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth. From the journal of Sir Francis Drake (1540-1596), explorer, on seeing the Cape for the first time, 1580.

    Belle Epoque poster Antibes

“Astronomy teaches us that the earth is a star of heaven. The voyages show us that the Cap d’Antibes is the heaven found on earth.” – Camille Flammarion (1842-1925), scientist, mystic.

      Belle Epoque poster Cape Town

“This is a pretty and singular town; it lies at the foot of an enormous wall, which reaches into the clouds, and makes a most imposing barrier. Cape Town is a great inn, on the great highway to the east.”  −  Charles Darwin (1809-1882), naturalist, biologist, in a letter to his sister, Catherine, 1836.

                             Cap d’Antibes

“I was struck by the sort of stupor into which the grandeur of things throws us, as we go through a garden beautifully situated at the point of Antibes. One is in an Eden that seems to swim within the immensity. ” – George Sand (1804-1876), writer, dramatist, poet.

                Antibes and the Maritime Alps

“I recall that I was once seized by a stroke of lightning before the city of Antibes, and I shouted it is too much, it is too beautiful.” –  Jacques Audiberti (1899-1965), writer, poet, dramatist.

                Cape Town by Bourset, 1770

“… Antibes, a gallant little city loved by the sun … and that the Eternal Father reserves for himself one day to retire, later, when He feels old.” – Paul Arène (1843-1896), poet, writer.

“Perhaps it was history that ordained that it be here, at the Cape of Good Hope that we should lay the foundation stone of our new nation. For it was here at this Cape, over three centuries ago, that there began the fateful convergence of the peoples of Africa, Europe and Asia on these shores.”  – Former President Nelson Mandela (1919 – 2013), during his inauguration speech on May 9, 1994.

                                  Cape Point

© Will van der Walt

Les Semboules, Antibes

July, 2017



Pierre Cosson: Antibes Juan Les Pins Biot Vallauris.  Guide Historique et Touristique.  Editions Gismondi. Cypris. 1980.

South African quotations



Antibes – Pierre Cosson : Antibes …

Hoerikwagga – Hoffnung 1750

Belle Epoque poster Antibes – source lost

Belle Epoque poster Cape Town – Hoerikwagga

Cap d’Antibes – Pierre Cosson : Antibes …

Antibes – Claude Dronsart, Renaud Dumenil : Antibes Juan Les Pins. Editions A.R.T. 1991

Cape Point – 




LEGENDS – the mistiness; the hard facts

My grandmother Lenie, born in the 19th-century, told me that we had an ancestor who throttled a young attacking lion with his own hands.  Is there a pinch of Hercules here?  My grandmother Miemie, born in the 19th-century, related how, at Vegkop, where the Trekkers were put to the spear of impis, a black woman servant fled with a white baby.  That baby was our forebear.

Legends are the mist around their heroes who stride over struggling facts of history.  Such a figure is St Honorat.

If we look at the year of his birth, 350 years after Christ, we see the changing Gallic-Roman world of Belgium.  He and his brother converted to the new, strange belief of the Christians.  Twenty years before Constantine had converted and a mere century before that Christians had still been torn apart by lions for the entertainment of spectators.

After adventures and travels over Europe, Honorat and his followers landed on the islands near modern-day Cannes, Iles de Lerins.  Here he established one of the first cloister-monasteries in Europe, which had great influence.  I was privileged to stay at this cloister for three days, a place of rich history and legends.  I came across one of these legends in the Dictionnaire d’Antibes:

 “The devil had gone, but serpents were still there.  Honorat fell down, begging God to destroy them.  Immediately they were dead, to the last.  But they were so numerous that the remains began to stink, but the holy one did not choke.

“He ascended a palm tree and prayed passionately.  Then the sea whelmed, flooding the surface of the island and washing away the repulsive carcasses of the serpents.”

Legends persist.  For us moderns there is something – the throttling of the lion; Vegkop; the serpents.  Do we always take the serpents literally? Were the people of the dark ages, finding the words for the history of a well-loved figure, not attempting to picture an inner struggle that Honorat was having?  Certainly Greek myths are a rich field for psychologists.

And what value there is for all South Africans in our family legend from Vegkop.

© Will van der Walt

Les Semboules, Antibes

June, 2017



Dictionnaire D’Antibes Juan-Les-Pins. Pierre Tosan (ed.)  HEPT – Antibes. 1998

Miemie van der Walt (1881 – 1973)

Lenie Rousseau (1883 – 1963)


My drawings







Table Bay, etching 1683

For me Table Bay is a Cape Malay bredie* of images and thoughts.  Table Bay and, of course, the Table Rock, were what magnetized me from the rural landscape to become a Capetonian.  And this bredie … Table Bay calls up for me the desire for a bigger world, a refusal to settle for suburban answers.  These Westerners … was the bad they brought in equal measure to the good?  In the shimmer on Table Bay history clashes swords with the sun … Wolraad Woltemade and his horse in the curve of a wave; the postal stones; ships sinking, ships arriving; the noon cannon;  bearded sailors staring at the Table Rock; Adamastor that you hear in storms if you listen; the Castle, the Amsterdam battery, the Chavonnes battery; the pain and anger of the Flying Dutchman …

The Flying Dutchman, ghost ship

… the murmur of the beach-combers; gulls; Robben Island, smear on the ocean;  musicians on the deck of a ship full of freed slaves dancing and playing the banjo, bringing the blues back to Africa …

Then the second bay, the Bay of Angels.  This Bay, the Côte d’Azur in France, stretches from Menton, near the Italian border and ends near Cannes.  They tell me there were human beings here four-hundred thousand years ago.  I smile.  Where I come from, South Africa, we start at two million years.  Still, history hums in the Maritime Alps that guard the Bay.  Here the Celt-Ligurians, a civilization of thousands of years, erected their forts and grunted under monoliths.  In Antibes (then Antipolis), where I find myself, their remains from 600 b.c. have been brushed open from under the Cathedral with its proto-Christian history.

Nomade sculpture ponders the Bay of Angels

Then came colonial masters, the Phonecians.  For them, the Bay of Angels was a lesser part of the larger establishment of Massala (today Marseille).  The Greeks arrive with an It’s our turn.  Monaco, Nice and Antibes all had Greek names originally.  Whether there were epic battles after some hundreds of years when the Romans marched in is uncertain.  Another handful of centuries.

In this time Roman soldiers regarded the mists of Scottish mountains and the rivers of Northern Europe.  After the assassination of Julius Caesar the coastal town along the Bay, Fréjus (the Forum of Julius), was honoured with his name.  His descendant Augustus had La Trophée built, today a sad, proud ruin, above Monaco. He instituted a census in the Empire, even to the far-flung town of Bethlehem in the Middle East.

Trophée of Augustus at La Turbie

Antibes has a legend that Paul came to the city.  Not unlikely when one thinks that Rome is but two or three days by boat.  Somewhere in the hills here there is a cave, its entrance collapsed and hidden.  In that cave is the Letter to the People of Antipolis written by Paul.  How would that be, if it were true?

At Juan-Les-Pins, the coastal town adjoining Antibes, there are few waves.  Here the Bay of Angels, or the Mediterranean Sea, often feels like a lake.  Over the shimmer on the water you see two islands, Ste Marguerite and St Honoré.  These islands, closer to Cannes, were occupied by the Romans and four hundred years after Christ, St Honoré and his following landed here, to establish one of Europe’s first Christian cloisters.

The islands of St Honoré and Ste Marguerite

These whispers across the water, music from distant times; strange instruments, lyrics unknown … they move over the creased sea … Table Bay and the Bay of Angels, two worlds, people who went before me, some of whose genes I carry … they saw what I now see and, perhaps, felt what I now feel.


© Will van der Walt

Les Semboules, Antibes

April, 2017

 *bredie – A Cape Malay dish of spiced curry, dangerously addictive



Pierre Tosan (ed.) : Dictionnaire D’Antibes Juan-Les-Pins (Hepta, Antibes. 1998)


Flying Dutchman –

Table Bay – etching by Allain Mallet in 1683, from “Hoerikwaggo”

Nomade, sculpture on the ramparts of St Jaumes, Antibes –  my photo

Trophée d’August – Côte d’Azur Tourism 

View of islands – my photo







Walloped awake by a window bursting open and the shutter flaying in a to-and-fro struggle, I am shocked from late-night sleep and battling with clenched teeth, blinding wind, to hook my fingertips around the edge of the shutter, to pull … to pull it back so that … so that I can control what wrenches from my grip.  The catch isn’t working.  I have a piece of twine to tie … to tie onto the flapping shutter.  And I manage, while the Enemy of the Night, the Mistral, lashes this shutter, my face, this apartment block, this town, region, the west Mediterranean, wreaking an old vengeful violence.


The Mistral as a wild night cannon

The shutter keeps.  I lie back on the pillow, wide-eyed, and listen to the wind, as I have never heard it. I know wind.  I come from the Cape.  But this … Is it Ligeti voices trying, like demons, to haunt their way through everything?  The high-intensity screaming like a bandsaw at my cheek … I’m scared.  Are these hexed angels?  Will the bashing shutter shower cold glass shards onto my face?  I think of flood waters.  I think of earthquakes.  I hear through the choir of lost souls in the lifeless thrashing of shutters outside against the walls of the apartment block.

Then, silence.

It’s an uncanny silence, this.  It feels as if it’s rising past my ears and slowly filling the room, like light.  The sky turns blue.  It’s day.

The day like silence comes

The day like silence comes

I’ve had this experience a number of times and throw in a thunderstorm that scared me witless.  And I know about the Mistral.  My first youthful contact was the description in Roy Campbell’s Horses on the Camargue.  He compares the wild horses of these deserted plains as wind over the sea. For me this is the most passionate poem in the language.

The spirit of the Mistral

The spirit of the Mistral

Then, there is André Brink’s Midi where he offers the mythology of the wind which bears a name in each of the southern patois.  This wind was formerly revered as a god, much as people have thought volcanoes to be gods.  And I’ve wondered how Frederic Mistral came to his surname, the Provencal poet who received the Nobel prize in 1905.

"He blows me here, he blows me there, he messes up my hair..."

“He blows me here, he blows me there, he messes up my hair…”

I think of the South-Easter – Sedoos in the patois – which tumbles Table Mountain’s tablecloth over the crags and which, as “The Cape Doctor”, blows away the germs.  It’s all so cosy until you wander around the Diaz monument on the Foreshore and experience the channeled force of the South-Easter, just as the Mistral channels its force through the Rhône valley at 100 kms/h.  Then you hold on, body and soul.

I, Mistral, am not the heavenly child"

“I, Mistral, am not the heavenly child”


© Will van der Walt

Les Semboules, Antibes

January, 2017


André P. Brink :  Midi. Op reis deur Suid-Frankryk. Human & Rousseau, Cape Town.  1969.

Roy Campbell: Horses on the Camargue


 Refer for interest:  György Ligeti (1923-2006), the Hungarian composer’s work “Atmospheres” (1961), amongst others.  


Night tree branches –

Trees in the wind –

Cape Town Wind  –  source lost

Trees in the wind – source lost















Even before 1994, Anton Marais had designed the Broken Temple.  Like the architect Jan van Wijk [Afrikaans Language Monument, Paarl; The University Area Church, Pretoria], there are prophetic elements in the work.  I don’t speak as an architect, nor as anyone knowledgeable.  I speak about this because I must.

The Broken Temple, Edward St, Durbanville blvd, Bellville

The Broken Temple, Edward St, Durbanville blvd, Bellville

It has been years of driving past the Temple on Durbanville  Boulevard, Bellville.  Sometimes, I interpret the building;  sometimes, it’s just poetry.  If the columns are not Doric, Ionic or Corinthian, probably pressure from the builders, it is the pediment that seizes my attention.

Rotonda by Palladio

                         Rotonda by Palladio

The Greek pediment is probably the best-known motif in Western architecture.  From Palladio (1508 – 1580), considered  by some as the most influencial architect, the pediment became standard.  Globally, it remains the icon of the West.  I was surprised when, neighbouring curled-roof edifices in the middle of Seoul, I saw a massive building with pediment-and-pillars.

East meets West in Seoul, South Korea

          East meets West in Seoul, South Korea

Marais’s Temple has a broken pediment.  In itself this is not unusual in the evolution of the motif.  Baroque architects broke the pediment with regularity.  But the difference is – the most striking aspect of Anton Marais’s work –  that the architects of the past “broke” the pediment symmetrically.  He does not.

Architect as prophet

                               Architect as prophet

One can see the asymmetrical breaking of the pediment as playful, typically post-modern.  Would that have been Anton Marais’s motivation?  Only that?  Or is there more?   This building makes me think of a great poem or a painting:  interpretations keep descending.

Does this design suggest a break with Western culture?  In this, there are positive and negative implications.  Will Southern Africa expand creatively into something new and surprising?  “Always something new out of Africa,” says Pliny, the Roman historian.  Or will South Africa lose Western traditions and, for the foreseeable future, become facelessly international?

Architecture as paradox

                   Architecture as paradox

I think it’s the paradox of the Broken Temple that makes it an important statement.  That it is asymmetrical, a planned off-balance, takes me to the concept of perpetual motion:  is this Temple being built or is the start of ruination?  Is the mathematical perfection of the pediment in question?  This design is and remains a question.  It is faithful to the Restless Greek that, for the past two and half millennia, has haunted our thought processes, pushing for rebirth again and again, a long tradition in Western culture.


 © Will van der Walt

Somerset-West  /  Les Semboules, Antibes

January, 2017



Villa Rotonda  – Wikipedia

 Seoul image, two photographs of Broken Temple, drawing – Will


 Dedicated to Mike Oberholzer


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