Objects of Memory: A Walk Through Michaelis Art School, Fifty Five Years On

September 2025

Stepping back into the Michaelis School of Fine Art after fifty five years, the '100 years : 100 objects' exhibition wasn't just a collection; it was a deeply personal journey through a living archive of memories.

This wasn't a show of masterpieces, but of the humble things left behind—the tools, photos, the furniture, the remnants of protest. It’s a story told through the residue of lives lived within these walls. A wonderful exhibition curated by Fritha Langerman which is on until 8 October 2025 and well worth seeing.

As a painting student at Michaelis from 1966 to 1968, this place shaped the course of my life. Seeing it now, I wanted to know which ghosts would be stirred—mine, my mentors', and the school's own complex, ever-changing spirit. I was delighted that one student, Editha Strydom (now Klaus) from our year was also present at the opening.

The first objects to greet me were the anchors of my time: an unassuming wooden easel and a worn studio chair. The easel belonged to Melvin Simmers, who was the school's very first Michaelis prize-winner in 1927. Forty-one years later, I would be awarded the same prize. He was our lecturer for anatomy and still life, a man who, as a fellow student recalled, "actually took the trouble to TEACH us." Nearby, the favourite chair of printmaker Katrine Harries brought her instantly to mind. A refugee from Nazi Germany, she was a gentle soul who single-handedly built the school’s printmaking department. Her chair is a symbol of resilience, and it was moving to know that my own 1968 photograph of her studio hangs just around the corner, a student's fleeting moment captured alongside a mentor's enduring legacy.

My time at Michaelis was a quiet tug-of-war between the school's traditional roots and the new waves of modernism. Art history lecturer Neville Dubow, a formidable critic, gave me the advice that became my guiding principle: find inspiration in your "own 'backyards' rather than looking to New York for ideas." That single sentence sent me out with my camera to document the disappearing storefronts of my youth and laid the foundation for my painting career. I remember one instance in his Art History class when a student asked about Helen Gardiner as a reference work. Dubow lunged forward, exclaiming, 'Helen Gardiner, the Kiss of Death!"

In contrast, I vividly recall the design lecturer May Hillhouse’s sharp response to an experimental "shaped painting" I proudly brought to her class. "John," she said, "if you want to do three-dimensional work I suggest that you go and do sculpture!" At the time it stung, but I now see it as the core tension of our education made plain: the clash between mastering a medium and breaking its boundaries.

On display is a newspaper cutting of Maurice van Essche, the principal of the school when I was there. A formidable figure with thick owl rimmed glasses who would occasionally drift into Carl Buchner's, life drawing class. He would point to the large drawing  on the easel, charcoal in hand, and exclaim in his Belgian accent; “You must CONSTRUCT… CONSTRUCT!”  Sadly he became ill and thereafter we saw very little of him. Buchner took over as acting principal and his painting class was taken over by Stanley Pinker. His watercolour paintbox is on display. Pinker brought fresh ideas to the class. He was not afraid to pick up your brush and I still recall him saying; "intensify the colour”. It took a while to assimilate what he meant.

Another photo of mine taken in 1968 was of fellow student Barbara Schirre and model Aza, in the life painting class. Drawing and painting from the live model was the most important part of our training when we were there.  Other models were Rose, Alma and Mary. I was shocked to learn, if I understand correctly, that drawing and painting from the nude model was discontinued after 2016.

"Beyond the painting studios, other memorable figures shaped our experience like sculptors Richard Wake and Bill Davis. Bill, who stood in for Lippy Lipschitz in 1966, was a man of slight stature. He left many students in tears when he would  pick up a plank and slap their precious clay sculptures into shape. “GET MORE FORM”, he would exclaim, "DONT BE PRECIOUS”.  We also had Stephen de Villiers at some stage. An intense man and I can still see his quivering finger pointing out some detail in one’s project.

But while my peers and I wrestled with art, a larger, more turbulent history was unfolding. The exhibition unflinchingly reveals the school’s contradictions during apartheid—a liberal "Moscow on the Hill" that also enforced segregationist policies, poignantly captured in a linocut by John Muafangejo, an artist the school rejected. I feel a regret for my youthful ignorance of such struggles. That legacy of resistance echoes in the artifacts from the 2016 Fees Must Fall protests, where a new generation challenged the school’s colonial foundations, engaging in a far more fundamental critique than the artistic debates of my era.

The exhibition brings this story full circle, right up to the present. "Emergency Art Kits" from the 2020 pandemic stand as a symbol of resilience. A simple class list from 2013, with blank spaces for students who left, is a testament to the school's courageous self-reflection. And in a groundbreaking moment, the formal integration of San rock art into the curriculum finally connects the school to the continent’s most ancient artistic traditions. In a twist of fate, the year Michaelis opened, 1925, was the same year Dorothea Bleek began her crucial work documenting these very images—a "fated alignment" a century in the making.

Leaving the exhibition, I felt certain that Michaelis has never been a single story. It is a living, unfinished archive, made by the thousands of people who have passed through it. At the entrance, a wall awaits more memories, an open invitation to add to the narrative. This walk through time, sparked by an old easel and an empty chair, has been my small answer to that call. Go and see it!

John Kramer