Johannesburg has always been a city of intersections – of stories, cultures, industries and dreams. Yet when it comes to art, the paths have often been neatly signposted: you go to a gallery, you stand in front of a painting, you move on. Art waits for you in curated spaces, behind doors you must decide to open. But what if art interrupts you? What if, without warning, the city you thought you knew asked you to stop, to look, to feel?

That’s the premise, and the provocation, behind Contra.Joburg, Johannesburg’s most radical visual arts festival. Now in its fourth year, Contra is less about inviting you into the art world and more about bringing the art world to you. From 30-31 August 2025, the streets, rooftops, alleys and working studios of the inner city will become a living network of interventions. Over 170 artists, designers and makers will transform 12 venues across the CBD into a two-day maze of possibility, where the next encounter could be a whispered poem, a spontaneous dance, or an installation that makes you stop mid-stride.

This isn’t art as decoration. It’s art woven into the city’s very rhythms; unannounced, unscripted and entirely in the moment.

It’s late on a Wednesday afternoon and I find myself engaged in an active search for meaning under the shade of a giant Ficus tree, in a garden first written about in 1682. I am engaged in a conversation with Basil George, and his wife Barbara, seeking to understand a place that I’ve been wanting to visit for the better part of 10 years. I’m in the remote reaches of the South Atlantic, far from the tedious hum of 2025, on St Helena Island.

As one of the most remote places in the world, the black rock of this volcanic island rises fiercely from sapphire blue waters, and you feel as if you are standing at the very edge of the world.

For the past 11 days, I’ve been immersed in the gentle allure of island life – breathing it in, ruminating on my life while sitting on the worn stone walls of a fort dating back to 1874, roaming the islands winding country roads in unhurried, soulful meanderings, and savouring the warmth of her local cuisine. Yet something eluded me. I wanted St Helena to reveal itself to me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I was simply too foreign, maybe too rushed to understand its rhythm. I was asking questions, but the island refused to answer in the language I expected. What was the essence of a Saint, as the locals are affectionately know?

Finding himself in an unusual frame of mind about his home city of Joburg, Ryan Enslin went in search of hope beyond dysfunction, seeking out fellow Joburgers determined to transform the inner city into a place worth fighting for.

I started falling out of love with Joburg last year. The city that once mesmerised me with her textured, multi-layered existence – the one that demands you look beyond the chaos to find her raw beauty – felt like it was slipping away. This is the Joburg where, if you live here, the odds are stacked against you before your day even begins. The city where stepping onto her streets feels like an act of defiance. That Joburg.

Three years ago, I chose to live in the city, eager to immerse myself in its energy. But each day, it gets harder. A sinkhole opened up on the main road behind my building two years ago, it remains permanently closed. Now, PUTCO buses barrel past my window each morning, their airbrakes and exhaust fumes replacing the once-gentle wake-up calls of laughter and morning chatter of people making their way to work.

That’s just the start. There were 21 days without power this past December. Or that time around the corner when someone stood at my car window, threatening me with a gun and demanding my phone, only to look at it and hand it back. And the countless tyres I’ve lost to Joburg’s infamous potholes. That Joburg.

Lately, I’ve found myself flirting with other cities, considering a life split between here and elsewhere. B…

Theatre is more than a spectacle, it’s a mirror to our world. Ryan Enslin recently discovered what happens when the stage fades for those who have dedicated their lives to the craft, taking in the new play Bitter Winter and the plight of actors in South African theatre.

I have always loved the theatre — the sense of occasion as showtime approaches, standing in the crowded lobby, weaving through a relentless queue to grab a drink before the final bell. A hum of anticipation in the air as I present my ticket, step into the auditorium, and find my seat. As close as possible to the stage. Always.

There’s something enthralling about the intimacy of live performance, not just with the artists, but with the world they conjure before my eyes. A bead of sweat tracing an actor’s temple under the unforgiving stage lights, a fleeting look or a breath held a second too long. For a moment, I am not just watching; I am inside the story, a silent part of the production itself.

At a performance of My Fair Lady at the Teatro Theatre this past January, two things struck me. I found myself wondering about the state of local theatre in South Africa. Beyond these grand international blockbusters, where were the homegrown productions? How were local theatre practitioners faring?

As I pondered these questions, the answer, at least in part, seemed to find me. By chance I was seated next to Weslee Lauder, producer of Bitter Winter, a new Paul Slabolepszy play that opened last Thursday at t…