Those of us who live in a city (or in my case cities), experience the location as a series of repeating and unique experiences. One block over is a once noble house, neglected and slowly disintegrating. This is the repeated image that forms a small but integral part of the bigger picture that is one's portrait of that city. And then one day as you pass the house you notice that a small plastic figure has been placed in an inset of wall surrounding that house. This small addition to the known makes it unique, adding reverberations that intersect with other images of that block, of that city.
This short book consists of 127 portraits, or snapshots, of the author's Johannesburg. There is no pretense that this is an objective set of portraits, some definitive travel book of the city. No, these are personal, intimate portraits, places and things that together make the Johannesburg of this particular white resident.
What makes the book so successful is a keen eye for detail and a facility for language that allows him to convey images with the exactly right words, the perfect objects taken to represent various facets of his city. One reoccurring image (I'm tempted to call it the key image of this book) is keys. Never discussed but clearly lurking behind these images is the reality of his city as increasingly violent and dangerous. A place where people are constantly taking steps to separate themselves from perceived danger. There are multiple locks on exterior house doors, and additional locks on the gates next to the sidewalk. Add more locks for car door and steering wheel locks, and the result is a large set of keys. While most writers would describe the danger, the author provides instead portraits of the keys, an image vivid and open to various interpretations. In one portrait a friend of the author realizes that a key has somehow found its way onto her key chain, and she has no idea where it came from, or what it unlocks.
He goes to a hardware store and is told that every day people come in to replace their metal house numbers with plastic because the metal ones are pried off to sell as scrap. Increasingly people devise ways to avoid going out on the street. The "well-healed, well-wheeled" have even discovered a hidden door in the public library allowing those in the know to go directly from the parking garage to the library, a path not intended by the library's builders. Things are always changing, and the author refuses to read these changes as a failure of his city. It is instead a constant transformation that he carefully examines. "I am stripping the bedroom door down to the wood...I wish I could read these strata [like]...the rings of a felled tree, deciphering the lean seasons...instead I see nothing but fashion...nineties ochre, eighties ivory..."