Signs of the Season
Every year the local production industry waits for it like the perennial rainfalls in the Okavango Delta. The downpour of euros and dollars from foreign brands who’ve booked to shoot in Cape Town. They’ve come to fill local coffers like dams. When Sunshine vans double-park outside Yours Truly with a twenty flat white order and holds up annoyed skaters then you know the clouds have already broken. International models sashay down Bree Street on portfolio patrols handing out samizdat Z-cards. Social media drowns in glazed six-packs of mainbookers in the golden nimbus of Camps Bay infinity pools. Rental companies book out Hasselblads faster than stylists can blaze Marlboros. Cantilevered Stefan Antoni’s of the atlantic sea-board are aired for before their three weeks of luxury editorials. Production Managers pack rented Hyundai H1’s with cooler boxes brimming with Woolworths Hummus and Carbo-Conscious Chicken Salads. Careful not to forget the photographer’s preferred brand of MCC before rushing their teams down to Bakoven to setup faded blue gazebos and regurgitate visuals they’ve seen at H&M. Sandbagged C-stands fight off the South Easter because every year more models are killed by scrims than sharks. The single-sipped 500ml Valpre bottle is my metaphor for the industry. Eighty percent of time, craft and talent left on the table.