Have you ever been completely captivated by a story, feeling like it was told in the most perfect way imaginable? That’s precisely how I felt when I watched Jack Markovitz’s “Deadstock.” Hearing him discuss the origins and crafting of the film was an experience in itself. Markovitz eloquently articulates his approach, emphasising the profound trust he establishes with his subjects. This trust resonates throughout his work, infusing it with authenticity and depth.
Can you provide some background about yourself, what you do and who you are?
I relocated to Joburg approximately three and a half years ago. I am drawn to creating work that reflects South Africa authentically, capturing the immediacy of my surroundings regardless of where I find myself. This creative endeavour spans various forms, sometimes resembling documentary, other times taking on a more constructed narrative. It may manifest as fashion or art, all of which intertwine seamlessly due to my interdisciplinary approach. I aim for each medium to resonate with the others, converging somewhere in the middle, blurring the distinction between reality and artifice. This intentional ambiguity prompts reflection among my audience, particularly within the South African context, regarding our present circumstances and future trajectory.
Primarily, I operate within the realms of art and fashion, where I find greater freedom compared to the more structured environment of traditional filmmaking. Beyond the confines of the industry, my work is an extension of my personal experiences. The individuals depicted are not mere subjects but reflections of the relationships I cultivate in my daily life. Joburg, with its stark contrasts, serves as both muse and backdrop. Over the past few years, I’ve traversed its diverse landscapes, from the bustling CBD to the tranquil greens of Houghton and the North, blending the spheres of my existence to create a nuanced portrayal of the city. This endeavour is a quest for authenticity, striving to present Joburg in its entirety, embracing its complexity.
In essence, my life is characterised by navigating these diverse worlds, bridging communities, and fostering reciprocal enlightenment through the exchange of perspectives.
Your bio states the following; ” Markovitz’s work is built on a deep trust between him and his subjects, with an aim to create provocative, progressive depictions of South Africa as he sees it.” Why is this important to you and how does your position both racially and economically come into play?
I believe my perspective on this question is evolving, but currently, I see the relationship I form with those I photograph as paramount. The photograph itself becomes a secondary expression—an encapsulation of a connection that I find deeply generative, exciting, and authentic. There’s an inherent desire to elevate the essence of someone’s life or the essence of my interaction with them. I sense a disconnect from the traditional approach of some South African photographers and filmmakers, which often feels overly strategic or defensive. At 25, I don’t claim to possess all the answers, but I find value in authenticity and spontaneity, in creating work that feels genuinely new.
South African art often gravitates towards social realism and commentary, which is undoubtedly vital, but I’m drawn to something deeper, something beyond words—a subconscious commentary that speaks through unspoken connections, with moments equally humorous and dark. My approach is deeply people-centred, rooted in genuine interaction rather than strategic positioning. While I respect those who excel in the strategic approach, it’s not something I feel adept at. For me, the act of creation is paramount, with the success or relevance of the work being secondary. This approach not only feels more wholesome but also, selfishly, I believe it yields the best results—work that resonates with honesty and immediacy.
Reflecting on my own experiences, I’ve found that building a genuine connection over time produces more authentic results than fleeting interactions. Asking to photograph someone whom I’ve known intimately for months yields a truer depiction than approaching a fascinating stranger. In essence, my creative process is anchored in these genuine connections, resulting in work that feels more honest and immediate.
Let’s talk about Deadstock, why was it important to tell this story and what was that process like? Please walk me through the entire process and your feelings towards it?
This project began as a subconscious exploration. Along with my two friends, Khumo and Muis we often found ourselves in deep discussions, particularly recalling encounters with people we observed from the car window in Johannesburg. We noted how their fashion choices seemed to influence our surroundings more than they were influenced by them. One day, a conversation sparked about a woman we saw wearing an Orlando Pirates shirt from the early 2000s paired with a long black skirt and pumps with white socks—a woman in her 50s. This led us to ponder the origins of these trends and who truly sets them. Contrary to popular belief, we felt it wasn’t always the youth but often individuals like her, unnoticed yet influential.
Fast forward to a year ago when I met Brooke in Yeoville. There was an instant connection between us, as if it were love at first sight. Brooke, a vibrant presence in her neighbourhood, breathed life into the streets wherever she went, attracting crowds of curious onlookers. Her connection to Brenda and the 90s era in Yeoville, where my parents lived, became a focal point of our discussions. This shared history deeply influenced our project.
These conversations organically paved the way for our exhibition project. We brainstormed subcultures and compiled a list of references, focusing particularly on the early 2000s and early 2010s in South Africa. We narrowed down to four subcultures that felt significant and undeniable. The filming process unfolded over eight months, characterised by informal interactions and deepening relationships. Much of the work was done off-camera—simply spending time with people, building rapport, and discussing ideas.
Sometimes, the process involved wandering the streets for hours with my camera, capturing candid moments. Other times, it was more intentional, like filming specific scenes with Brooke. Our inspiration drew from documentaries of the 90s and early 2000s, particularly those exploring youth culture and fashion in South Africa. We aimed to emulate the raw, unpolished aesthetic of these documentaries, creating a sense of underground discovery.
While the project’s aesthetic may captivate viewers, what truly resonated with us was the honesty and directness of our subjects’ expressions. We discovered that their reasons for dressing a certain way often stemmed from instinct and honesty rather than calculated trends. This authenticity became the driving force behind our project—an attempt to capture the essence of South African street culture in its purest form. And thus, our journey began.
What do you believe is our responsibility as filmmakers and artists? How can we contribute to these conversations while still sustaining ourselves economically?
The responsibility is to let their thoughts and emotions about the social and political climate of their context bleed into their work ethic; they have to do that. And unless they want to be someone who is completely making art for art’s sake, and I think that is ultimately harmful to this kind of subjectivity.
We have an over stimulating environment, we have an oversaturated environment, and we have people who have been given a gift and have the tools to express things in a way that can, move people to think and reflect and ask questions. And I think for me I’ve been on many ends of making stuff that I feel is very direct and is negative commentary. But I think where I’m at now I want to carry all my sentiments and beliefs.It comes from a deep anchor of how I was raised and what I was exposed to when I was young, and that’s informed me politically in everything I do.
Please give a quotable or any line you live by
The quote I’ve lived by since I was maybe 16 has always been, and it’s supposed to be funny, but it’s, “When will I be enough?” It’s more personal, about how I feel in the world. But the older I get, the more I experience that accepting my insignificance is very freeing.
