Barbara Adair – Researcher and Writer

Unpublished Writing

A Story for a Friend or One Day in a City (of Gold)

by on Oct.17, 2016, under Unpublished Writing

It is a very hot day. Johannesburg does not known this heat (that is if a city can know anything); it is so hot that only the old remember that fifty years ago it was hot, as hot as it is today. Memory atrophies, but the old still validate breathing the air of the young with stories of the memories that they will never have.


Jodie sits at a computer. (continue reading…)


A Big City Story

by on Oct.17, 2016, under Unpublished Writing

Is it impossible to be you if I do not accept myself in the cities terms?

You are a brand, you say, a stereotype, we are all special, and no-one is special, let the logic happen itself.

On the corner of 97th street and Broadway, New York City, is a Starbucks coffee shop. But maybe it is not on this corner, I say to you, it is on the corner of 103rd and Broadway? This is a coffee shop in a big city, you say, one coffee shop is the same as another; hey, coffee to sit or to go, one coffee is the same as another, one brand, the city is a brand, the neon lights up the buildings of Time Square, Calvin Klein, Gorgio Armani, one name, my name, what’s in a name, you say, I am the same as you are. Are the lights too bright, I say? (continue reading…)


An American In Africa

by on Oct.17, 2016, under Unpublished Writing



In 2006 Binyavanga Wainaina gave a few tips to Americans on how to write about Africa – some tips: sunsets and starvation are good.

So Go!

Let’s fly; with the poor for they are in heaven, they live in the blackest of all darkness, in moon shadows and wide open skies where the sunset signify today and bygone tomorrows. Let’s fly (in a Cessna 182, made in America) to God’s primordial spaces.

Where am I going?

AFRICA …… AFRIKA ….. AFRICA (continue reading…)


A Little Bit of America

by on Oct.17, 2016, under Unpublished Writing


Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

Travelling somewhere in the United States of America: the land of the free and the home of the brave?

We park the car (Olive green Jeep, 2014, registration plate: DIVA – Land of Enchantment; made, or maybe born, in the USA) in the main road of Durango (Colorado). A man with long white hair, a horse tail that stretches down his back, almost as far as his wide black belt, the buckle is a deaths head insignia, walks towards a Harley Davidson (made, or maybe born, in the USA, the man and the motorbike). He has a limp despite his wearing especially made built up brown shoes that he bought in Wal-Mart, (Wal-Mart is the largest employer in the United States, it employs almost five times as many people as IBM. Sam Walton is the biggest job creator in this galaxy, but he doesn’t pay much). His right arm is missing. (continue reading…)


Peter Beard – The Man who took Photographs

by on Nov.14, 2014, under Unpublished Writing 

In November 2013, Peter Beard, born in 1938 so now aged seventy five, suffered a stroke. This information was conveyed to the press by Njema Beard, his wife, manager and the curator of his legacy. For many years there have been rumours of divorce, accusations of Beard’s sexual involvement with his daughter Zara, of whom Njema is the mother, and yet she is still there, still a part of the end of his game, keeping a living memory of what was, is and what will be. And this story: a short yearning for more, and an understanding of life’s defeat.

I do not know Peter Beard; but I have been captivated by his photographs and the stories of his mythological, wild and insouciant life for a long time. Why, his photographs are colonially transgressive, his diaries are a pop artist’s excitement, his decadent and illusive life is enviable? (continue reading…)