Cynthia Kros & Georges Pfruender
Memory under Construction. A Follow Up
This paper is informed by our joint presentation of “Memory under Construction” at the FUTURE MEMORIES conference, by discussions with colleagues during our three stays in Addis Ababa, and by further on-line dialogues and extracts from writings which we had started prior to, and which continued after the conference in the format of field-notes. Our writing exercises helped us to explore and record some of the processes of memory-work. Inspired by a number of theoretical texts from sources in the Global South and the North, but also triggered by stories we encountered or recalled, we worked this draft as a weaving pattern, in which both our voices co-exist. We are working towards an expanded version, which will interrogate the fraught relationship between memory and memorial, considering two urban contexts—Johannesburg and Addis Ababa.
This paper looks at processes pertinent to the constitution of memory, querying its relationship to discipline and contexts. It also offers insights into memory in regard to its functioning (and its lapses), both as individual and collective agent in the building of societal awareness. One of our core arguments is that storytelling facilitates memory recall and allows us to understand “how subjectivities and identities are constructed, revealing not only personal and collective social experiences of the past, but also illuminating how the interpretation of past events within stories may be analysed to formulate certain hypotheses and attributions about the social world in the present”.
This is very much an experimental paper, in which we explore ideas, techniques and processes with a degree of freedom that is, however, ultimately constrained by disciplinary considerations. The simultaneous latitude with which we allow ourselves to pursue particular lines of thought and free association, and the checks we exercise according to the logic of our arguments are accommodated by our dominant image of memory under construction.
The paper was written for a conference that formed part of the inauguration of the new African Union (AU) Peace and Security Building, and the selection of an artist from an All-African competition to create an artwork for it that would speak to African aspirations. In this regard, we follow the lead of the Apartheid Archive Project, which we shall cite several times below, in its determination to reverse the effects of the dominant power relations in the old archive so as to create a viable basis for the achievement of a just society. The diverse memory works underway, relating to the Red Terror in Ethiopia are indicators of this kind of transformational aspiration.
The paper culminates by asking questions about the ways artists access collective memory, and how art-works respond to narratives unfolding in the wake of atrocity and persecution comparable to that which is powerfully symbolised in European history through reference to the Holocaust.
Visitors to Terror
Our visit to the Red Terror Museum in Addis Ababa triggered discussions of topics presented at the Sounds of Change conference2, which had taken place a few months before FUTURE MEMORIES. Looking at the exhibition, we saw the enormity and complexities one encounters when confronted with the task of framing for a broad public, the contours of a major trauma even now still under investigation, with only partial narratives having become available. In the odd double position of being a passing visitor and a privileged witness of moments in the history of the Red Terror and the Famine (one of us having lived in Ethiopia from 1983 to 1984 and in 1988), we looked from the perspectives of “uncertain outsiders” at what seemed to both of us a spectacle, exhibiting the bones of victims in cabinets and the replica of a torture machine. The display may create more space for objects as reliable witnesses of the events, allowing for the possibility of an instant of empathetic understanding. But because of personal experiences, still lodged in memory, we felt unable to accept a museal presentation as a heuristic device, as it were, to explain, or rather illustrate the point that this was a dreadful period worthy of the museum’s exhortation that “never ever again” should it be repeated. Although we were grateful for the endeavours that had gone into the creation of this museum, we thought of all the space that still needs to be invested with narratives, and wondered how objects might be given the agency to tell stories outside the master narrative (of all the space outside the master narrative told in the museum that still needs to be invested with other narratives).
And so—why should we concern ourselves with a trauma that we “visited” or knew only in tangential ways? Or, had we just accepted a judgement imposed from elsewhere that assigned us to the category of visitor/outsider? What is it about the present that makes us unwilling to let these things go? And, as we use the form “we”, how do we differentiate in our writing between the various possibilities of a “we”? Here we turn to a paper by Carol Long, who as a white woman involved in the Apartheid Archive Project established at Wits University in Johannesburg in 2009, has articulated her discomfort about the status of “white” narratives, including her own, in what is intended to be a new archive in the making to reverse the poisonous relationships of the past. Long is confronted by the same dilemma we are—we can’t just walk past the torture wheel in the museum, saying: how dreadful it must have been. The torture wheel strikes us as a mockery—a parody of the torture we witnessed—even if it was at a distance. However, our guide at the museum was imprisoned for eight years during the dictatorship. Ought we not simply submit to his narrative and conviction that the torture wheel will makeus understand the Red Terror?
Statue at the Red Terror Museum, Addis Ababa 2014; photograph: Georges Pfruender
Long’s chapter in the Apartheid Archive collection appears to offer a release from what she describes as the situation of being “trapped in difference”3 of paying obeisance to the rule that there should be “untranscendable” divisions4 between “white” and “black”, outsider and legitimate insider. She appeals for a decisive break with racialised spaces, most starkly delineated under the system of apartheid that dictated, for every aspect of human life, where we should feel or experience and which, twenty years after the formal demise of apartheid, is still preventing us from making the crossing into other areas of experience and feeling. Long offers an interesting possibility for us to conceive of a space that would not be entirely “exclusive”; that would allow us to move ahead whilst acknowledging the difficult past; a space that offers a collective reworking of memory which is neither in the entirely subjective, nor in the removed objective form. Referring to Donald Winnicott, she states: “transitionality and play are mechanisms of creativity, that belong to the serious business of being authentic, ‘being alive’ and being part of cultural life. It is the space between the internal and the external where subjectivity resides”; She suggests that this space holds “the potential to understand the relationship between the individual and the social by avoiding either individualising social aspects of experience (such as racism) or ignoring the individual experience”.5
Looking at the links which bring memories from the era of apartheid together with experiences anchored in the Red Terror, we would wish to think these two in dialogue with each other; independent as experiences, but yet with a joint echo force that allows the conception of a transitional space in the sense outlined above. Breaking with the logic of apartheid, but also that of the Red Terror would mean that we undo the regime of silence, that we can break away from the duty of compliance, which prevented spontaneity and authenticity. To create potential shared spaces in which to play, we need to recognise differences and work with creative tension between them. As a first step, stories need to be heard from multiple origins: in the case of stories regarding the apartheid era, Jacob Dlamini in his memoir, Native Nostalgia (2009) offers an example of counter position and resistance against the continuing power of apartheid, which prescribes the parameters of the collective long after it has supposedly relinquished its power. Dlamini’s message is that being black does not mean that one has access to only a single set of prescribed memories. Whilst my memories might be in contradiction with what is supposedly politically correct, they have their own place and agency.
Long voices her unease in situations where the story-teller and the interpreter are at great distance from one another, or seem to travel in such radically differing worlds that the basis for a dialogue seems difficult to conceive of. She suggests, as a way of moving forward, both for those who are directly concerned and for those who are engaged in an act of dialogical participation, the need to write oneself into a project “as a way of avoiding the encapsulation of our own experiences as separate, of preventing us from forgetting ourselves”.6
In our on-going research we find it highly productive that one of us had first hand, albeit “secondary” experiences of life during the Red Terror, whilst the other experienced the impact of the murderous regime of apartheid. Both of these we understand as pertinent for the shaping of this paper, which wishes to address not just the matter of memory, but also its processes.
We have been creating field-notes as an evolving method for our research and we believe that they shape the kind of transitional space evoked by Long, in which spontaneity and authenticity are given agency, where the anecdote and analysis can co-exist, and provide a “matter of concern”, to be further worked through. Below we provide an excerpt from one of our field-notes in which we are discussing, as we have intimated above, not just the content of memory, but the mechanisms that trigger it: the process of recovery, reactivation, juxtaposition,7 modelled on Georges Perec’s “I remember” formula.8
If I remember correctly How often we use the phrase “if I remember correctly”. Are we anticipating a correction from someone who remembers better than we do? Or, is it really some kind of inverted challenge along the lines of: you dare not say that I remember incorrectly! a flash, the centre precise, the margins fragile, blurred—not unlike a dream. This happened somewhere in Sidamo, or was it Bale in 1984? Would this following passage need to be blurred, as the ownership is unsecure? We drove this nifty four-wheel drive Toyota, a box car that could transport some twelve passengers, when the lateral seats were opened out. We arrived in this little town, the paths, first opened by men and cattle, were just slightly widened for future truck access, still to come. The mayor of the town, a solid man, and his three assistants asked us to take them along to the next village where they would introduce us to the townspeople. The car was so full that I could not see anything through the rear mirror. As I tried to make a U-turn, I backed into one of the two wooden poles which carried the signage then erected in front of each town, which carried the painted faces of Mengistu Haile Mariam, Marx and Lenin, which came crashing down on the car as the pole folded. Instead of being upset, the mayor and his assistants were roaring with laughter, repeating time and again: “they came down, they came down”.
I love this story. It reminds me of when the bust of short lived Prime Minister Strijdom spontaneously fell off its pedestal some time in the post-apartheid period on what would have been the anniversary of the Republic. Of course in your story there is more human agency. In the case of Strijdom it must’ve been the forces of history that toppled him. I tried to think if I had ever been responsible for the demolition of even some tiny and trivial icon of apartheid. The only thing I remember was my resistance to mounting the old South African flag on my classroom wall in the 1980s. When the inspector came and questioned me about its absence, I disingenuously explained that I had thought political symbols were banned from schools. I remember that it was a day in September when snow had fallen in Johannesburg and collected on the ground in sufficient quantities for the children to make snowballs and we teachers huddled in the staff room, afraid to go out and face the assault. It was bizarre because in Johannesburg September is supposed to mark the beginning of spring. I remember that I was wearing a thin, long sleeved shirt and green velvet pants. I was dressed too lightly for the weather. I also hadn't prepared my lessons because of the excitement of the snow and had sent secret messages to my pupils to pretend when the inspector came to our class that what they were about to hear was a new lesson and not the one I had given the day before. I remember all these details. I remember shivering in the unanticipated cold. I remember the faces of my colleagues as we peered out of the staffroom in an attempt to plot a route to our cars. But I don't remember anything about the inspector. He fits a generic type. I remember him as lean, humourless and exuding a self-righteous hatred for everything I stood for.
And, then, commenting on my poor capacity to drive backwards, they started to chant, with the reinforcement of our field officers: wede hwala, wede hwala (backwards, backwards), the counter sentence to what was written on the board: wede fit (forward).
t seemed like a very minor incident, compared to so many others, far more epic, which would qualify a deeply troubled time in Ethiopia and which still continue to haunt me. A memory with faded edges. How big was that town we came to visit? How long did we precisely stay? From where did that mud road bifurcate, which I vividly remember as difficult to navigate? The precise incident—the thud we heard when the shield came down—remained present in sound and colour in my memory. Maybe, it did further grow in contours and dimensions as the years went by. My own reading of the situation, which might have been enriched or even altered into what I now consider consolidated memory, and shaped into a narrative with some stability. I remember as having recognized in that very moment the importance for the mayor to be seen driven into the neighbouring town in a pristine white car (which, given the road conditions, would seem impossible). Now I understand that the very fact of having travelled in this contained unit, where conversations could linger and err, allowed the incident to turn into a moment of joint delight—a moment also charged with political innuendo, which I would learn to appreciate as a “wax and gold” tactic developed to sophisticated degrees by many Ethiopians, that is alluding as a sole means of expressing politics, when any opinion publicly voiced would potentially carry terrifying consequences. The moment thus might have only gained its full significance with further information and experiences lived at a later stage. Memory reloaded.
I've been giving considerable thought to the sequence of narrative and image. Let's take my memories of the events surrounding the murder by an agent of the state of my friend, David Webster on May Day 1989.
First, I see the white plastic chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around the fountain on the library lawns for the University assembly that took place after his death. It was there I realised for the first time that the apartheid state was not only callous and cruel, but murderous.
Secondly, I hear the voice of my journalist friend telling me over the phone: "David Webster has been shot." I have just come back from playing in the park with my two young children and my first reaction is one of resentment that a day, which seemed as if it held the promise of something better, has been shattered. But I still don't understand that shot means dead. Thirdly, I am walking through central block and I encounter Maggie, David's partner. As she reaches me, she collapses against me and says twice: "it's so awful!" I think she will never recover. I can still feel the slightness of her body against mine and recall how surprised I was that I could take its weight. She made me feel large and responsible.
Lastly, I am in the cathedral, standing with my friends, listening to the tributes to David and hearing that his body was covered on the sidewalk, where he lay after having been shot down on his way back from the nursery, with his Orlando Pirates blanket.
The images I have described pass through my head very often—especially when I am crossing the library lawns or walking through the foyer of the central block at the university.
When stating that some memories have dream like quality, I think of the joy we can find in reconstructing a narrative which resists the logics and principle of rationality we apply to our present ways of coping with reality, and which in some odd subversive way, suggests other dimensions in the realm of emotions. Memories, like dreams, can also be indicators of blind spots in the official archive of history, and can thus provide the material for counter-narratives.
Yes, I like the idea of blind spots. I think of when another driver is in your blind spot on the highway and one small miscalculation could lead to a terrible accident. But mostly you don’t even know that he is there.
To forget and to remember is a balancing act. I tend to think that forgetting some of the context, which led to that very incident would be productive—it contains a memory in a shape that can become a story. The fading of the edges would indicate the precise possibility for a framing—and allow for a beginning and an end. The conscious and unconscious setting of islands in a space otherwise would be without limit, without shape—the nightmare, in my opinion, would be to be subjected to a continuous and unfiltered stream of memory.
Yes, framing is essential. That’s how I visualise my memories of the death of David Webster—in those three vignettes I have described above. They are three islands and mostly I don’t even try to join them up unless I am recounting the story to people who are unfamiliar with it. They may, in any case, have submarine bridges to other landmasses that are not immediately discernible, such as my consciousness of the horror of the apartheid state. And why do I invariably stop with the story of Maggie collapsing against me, completely debilitated by grief? By her own account, 20 years later she had recovered and was ready to entrust the obligation of commemorating David Webster’s murder to others.
What happened next was prosaic. I think you can feel the effort as I put my shoulder to the wheel of the narrative. In 1999—ten years after David was killed—Maggie and friends created a mosaic outside their house in Troyeville with artistic direction from Ilse Pahl. It showed aspects of David’s life—a soccer ball to recall his passion for Orlando Pirates, Nguni cattle to represent his anthropological field work in Kosi Bay, outstretched hands for friendship, and a handprint of Maggie’s daughter who never knew David, but who grew up in the house he had shared with Maggie. In 2012 the house was declared a heritage site. I have to say that Maggie recalls the making of the mosaic with pleasure and that she has been pleased to pass it every day on her way in and out. Moving on is good and necessary, but you see what I mean by prosaic?
Twenty years after David’s murder, the local park in Troyeville was upgraded and renamed in his honour. A mosaic portrait by Jacob Ramaboya was unveiled with the dates of his birth and death and a legend that read: “Assassinated here for his fight against apartheid. Lived for justice, peace and friendship.” We—his friends from the ‘80s now successful professionals, parents and in some cases politicians had a party in the park. Johnny Clegg, David’s friend and colleague and an internationally renowned musician made a speech. The mayor of Johannesburg, Amos Masondo was there.
Twenty years had swept over the longed for tidemark of democracy. We could point it out to our children and say: see here, this is how far it came—and perhaps we felt it was receding. We recalled David as I truly think he was—a brave and good man who had been cruelly deprived of seeing the world for which he had fought in his own quiet, dogged way. But we felt the pain lift. Who says—that we pass our obligation to remember onto memorials so that we can carry on the business of living?
Every now and then, though—when I pass those places on the university campus that I told you about—that hold memories related to David’s assassination in a way that has not been distilled from their troubling context, that is just as raw and undiscriminating as that early winter sunlight of May the First 1989, I feel that pain again and I hear Maggie say with what seems like unstaunchable finality: “It’s so awful.”
Memory: Singular and Collective
We ought to acknowledge that there are several traditions of oral history that have flourished in South Africa over at least the last thirty-five years, which have sometimes come to blows with one another over the way historians should relate to the memories they are told by their informants. Almost twenty years after the first major publications based on oral histories had emerged from the South African academy, Sean Field demanded more respect on the part of historians for their informants and for closer attention to the ways in which “people remember, forget or silence their past”, arguing that these features were “central questions to the interpretation of memory”.9 He insisted on the validity of “ordinary” people’s memories against the condescension of what he called “grandiose history writing”10, but the way in which he delegated interpretation to an expert betrays his notion of a division of labour that seems not that dissimilar to that practised in the grandiose school. The Apartheid Archive Project that we have mentioned above, founded by two university-based psychologists and open to multi-disciplinary perspectives, as well as to a practice which encouraged repeated interrogations of the same memory-narratives with the explicit mission of upsetting the relationships of power that still bedevil South African society, seems to mark a more radical rupture.
Field was looking for a way of battering down the power of what he called dismissively “grandiose history writing”. The editors of the collection that was the first published product of the Apartheid Archive Project, similarly called on Pierre Nora’s idea of collecting narratives from “ordinary” people to counter the “petrifying effects of dominant formalised histories”.11 In our reading, the term “memory” embraces that which does not seek the kind of accuracy historians were taught in school, which concerns the procedural analysis of written documents, the referencing of validated sources and the collation of a body of “reliable” information to be compiled into an argument—but rather a performing of something that links the past to the present, in individual and societal ways. It is the source, and transforms the source, which makes us exist: memory as the link of our singular selves to society, memory as the shaping device of our real and imagined existence. With this memory I stand in front of you.
But also: with this memory I have to live. One of Field’s informants,12 recalling the impact of a forced removal under apartheid, whom he names as Mr D.S. says: Memories, ja, wat nooit, wat nie kan weggaan nie [Memories, yes, that never, that cannot go away]. Memory which keeps on disturbing us – where the past seeps into the present as a moment of “not yet finalised”, “not yet solved” or “not yet realised”. And in this we are, to our own selves, fictions in the making. We project to our world the fictions of who we would like to be. So, calling for the telling of memories and more specifically, calling for the collective telling of memories of traumas, we also invite first and foremost the human into the picture, in all its frail and unstable realities. Listening to these memories, we can hear as much about modes of coping with the past, as we hear about the past. And, we know, that if these memories are not told in isolation, each one on his own, but rather in a group to a group, the collective becomes yet another potential new condition, which Gilbert Simondon proposes: falling out of step with ourselves, hesitating in the repetition of one story format, allowing doubt, and reconsideration of those angles left apart, and, ultimately, changing perspective in a narrative as others bring in their memories of that particular moment. Dennis Walder suggests that: “narratives can provoke an opportunity to provide a means of sharing, debating, and negotiating communal ethical value”.13 Memory in such circumstances really would serve as platform for sketching out the future of a society, perhaps in the way that the Apartheid Archive Project understands it.
Sharing memories among a group can create the fabric of a collective body of memories, and, as a consequence, sharing a collective awareness. Such a collective entity, emerging through various narratives, will by no means simply be the sum of a number of similar experiences, or be the revealing agent of a whole, which each individual might be somehow aware of; rather, it acts as a body of new meaning, and impacts with echo force transforming all those who contributed with singular narratives, as Simondon pointed out: “[...] c’est pourquoi la découverte de signification du collectif est à la fois transcendante et immanente par rapport à l’individu antérieur.”14 [That is why the discovery of the meaning of the collective is at the same time transcendental and an immanent matter to the former individual.]
New Language Systems—Writing after Auschwitz
Collective traumas, no matter how overwhelming they seem to those who had experienced them, do not force speechlessness, but can trigger new ways of speaking, and create new paths to language. Contrary to Theodor Adorno’s highly contested statement—“Nach Auschwitz ein Gedicht zu schreiben, ist barbarisch, und das frißt auch die Erkenntnis an, die ausspricht, warum es unmöglich ward, heute Gedichte zu schreiben.”15 [to write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric, and it also frets the knowledge why it is impossible to write poetry today]—the role of art in view of the horrors of the Holocaust and the atrocities and crimes against humanity is addressed as a complicated and often impossible task. Paul Celan, in radical new ways, shaped a body of poetry (“Die Niemandsrose”, “Schwarze Milch”, etc.), which deeply moves and so ultimately seizes, through allusive language that which cannot be stated.
Following Adorno’s rejection of an easy solution, be it technical, compositional or political, we acknowledge that unimaginable horrors can be articulated through art. What we write and what we make cannot simply unblinkingly reflect the horror; neither should we think it is possible to embrace some hard, primitive truth that we imagine has escaped modernist contamination. Neither is it a remedy to land a petulant jab in the eye of the speculative beholder. We should take care that we are not just mouthing/simulating any old refusal to follow the formula of the masterpiece. Still following Adorno, what we make has to endure while deriving most of its value from being transient. It has to speak clearly even though what we say stays untranslatable by eluding precision. At present, we are still mired in the “colonial imaginary”, still obsessed with the “politics of resentment”. Is it not yet time for us to go beyond them and if so, how? Sudipta Kaviraj gestures towards a “principle of reflexivity” that came from the West, but which could be turned against it. Art can be an entry point for seeking this principle of reflexivity, as it possesses the power to mirror those things we might no longer see, or not yet see, which reflect us and make us reflect.
his paper uses a methodology that is simultaneously free and associative and disciplined and conscious of its responsibilities to produce a text—captured in the concept of “memory under construction”. The paper demonstrates the importance of storytelling to memory work. To test the potential of storytelling further, we set up an experiment in memory recall through dialogue.
The trigger for writing a paper that foregrounds traumatic memory was our visit to the Red Terror Museum in Addis Ababa. Subsequently, we discussed our experiences of trauma and asked ourselves: do we have the right to speak about them and claim that we suffered, given that we were not the primary victims of the oppression and atrocity we were recalling? We turned to Long and Dlamini as advocates of tactics and strategies of resistance to the persistence of category restrictions central to the functioning of a dictatorial regime. We relied on Simondon, to provide for a way of visualising a more dynamic relationship between individuals and processes of individuation and the collective, than is conventionally rendered.
We see this paper as the start of an in-depth research project about the processes and actions of memory related to the societal and political, and how memory is activated through art. We particularly wish to explore the link between memory and memorial, based on examples in Addis Ababa and Johannesburg. A core question we ask ourselves is: how do we make art in the light of the horror of our pasts—whether it be of Ethiopia, South Africa or that of other African histories?
2 Sounds of Change Conference, Addis Ababa; a conference about changes in curricula in the arts of the continent; launched by Alle School of Arts (University of Addis Ababa) and Wits School of Arts (University of the Witwatersrand), with the participation of the Académie des Beaux-Arts de Kinshasa, funded by Goethe-Institut.
3 Carol LONG: „Transitioning Racialised Spaces”, 78.
4 Ibid., 63.
5 Ibid., 62.
6 Ibid., 73.
7 Cf. Dennis HIRSON: I Remember King Kong (2004), and: We walk straight so you better get out the Way (2005).
8 Cf. Maurice HALBWACHS: On Collective Memory, 1967/1992.
9 FIELD (2001), 119.
10 Opt. cit. in Garth STEVENS: „The Apartheid Archive Project. The Psychosocial and Political Praxis’”, in: STEVENS, Garth, Norman DUNCAN And Derek HOOK(Eds.): Race, Memory and the Apartheid Archive (2013), 7.
11 FIED (2001), 124.
12 Dennis WALDER: Postcolonial Nostalgias: Writing, Representation and Memory (2011), 19.
13 Gilbert SIMONDON: L’individuation psychique et collective (1989), 197.
14 Theodor W. ADORNO: „Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft“ (1951). In: Gesammelte Schriften, Band 10.1: Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft I, Frankfurt/Main 1977, 30.
15 Theodor W. ADORNO: “Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft” (1951). In: Gesammelte Schriften, Band 10.1: Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft I, Frankfurt/Main 1977, 30. (Cultural Criticism and Society, 1982).
ADORNO, Theodor W.: “Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft” (1951). In: Gesammelte Schriften, Bd 10.1: Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft I. Frankfurt/Main 1977. (Cultural Criticism and Society, 1982)
CELAN, Paul: Die Gedichte. Kommentierte Gesamtausgabe. Berlin 2005.
DLAMINI, Jacob: Native Nostalgia. Johannesburg 2009.
FIELD, Sean: “Remembering Experiences, Interpreting Memory. Life Stories from Windermere”. In: African Studies 60(1), 2001, 119-133.
FREIRE, Paulo: Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York 2000.
HALBWACHS, Maurice: On Collective Memory. Chicago 1992. (La mémoire collective, 1967)
HIRSON, Denis: I Remember King Kong. Johannesburg 2004.
HIRSON, Denis: We walk straight so you better get out the Way. Johannesburg 2005.
KAVIRAJ, Sudipta: “An Outline of a Revisionist Theory of Modernity” In: European Journal of Sociology 46(3), 2005, 497-526.
LONG, Carol: “Transitioning Racialised Spaces”. In: STEVENS, Garth, Norman DUNCAN and Derek HOOK (eds.): Race, Memory and the Apartheid Archive. Towards a Transformative Psychological Praxis. Houndmills 2013, 61-82.
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Georges Pfründer is artist and researcher, who headed the Wits School of Arts at the University of Witwatersrand in South Africa from 2009 to 2013. From 1996 to 2009, he directed the Institute of Fine Arts Ecole Cantonale d’Art du Valais (ECAV) in Switzerland. He has participated in conferences, panels and residency programs in Europe, Northern and Southern America, Africa, Hongkong and Taiwan, and is presently coordinating in collaboration with Cynthia Kros collective art projects which involve researchers from South Africa, Ethiopia and France.