On a quiet Sunday afternoon in Dayveton, movement slowly unfolded.
This conversation took place while walking. While observing. While documenting life as it exists now, and only now.
Itumeleng, also known as ‘Crrrtur’, is an image-maker whose work is rooted in Dayveton, where he lives and creates. His photographs carry a sense of stillness — not because nothing is happening, but because everything is. His images freeze motion, emotion, and fleeting interactions into something archival, intimate, and enduring.
As part of the Shokunin Journals, Maison Originals’ Creative Director Thandolwethu Mbatha walked alongside Itumeleng through his neighbourhood, speaking about craft, patience, ethics, light, memory, and his growing community initiative, takeAwalk — a project that turns walking into a collective act of seeing.
What follows is a conversation shaped by movement, pauses, and presence.
Interview
Thandolwethu Mbatha (TM):
The piece we’re working on is about stillness — but stillness that exists within motion. You’re always moving, yet there’s a calm in how you work. Some people feel like they need to leave where they are in order to start creating, but you don’t.
With the work you’ve built in this neighbourhood, what drew you to start capturing your own community?
Itumeleng “Crrrtur” (IC):
I grew up here. I live here. So of course, I’m going to take photos here.
I love the idea of documenting life — for the future. I want generations to see the time we lived in. I chose the place I grew up in and where I’m still living.
This place is my canvas.
TM: Would you say you see yourself as an archive of sorts
IC: Yeah. Definitely.
There are so many things I’ve captured that I haven’t shared yet. I’m keeping them. Not everything has to be shown now.
TM: Your images invite a sense of stillness. They ask the viewer to pause and reflect. How would you define stillness in your work and process?
IC: When I’m creating, there’s motion. My intention is to capture movement.
But to the eye, it becomes still.
I never really thought of my work as “still,” because everything is moving. Even when you call it still, it’s because the camera freezes it. Cameras have power — they pause moments you can’t pause in real life. You own that moment, and people love that.
TN: Your images often feel like they exist in-between moments — they don’t feel staged, but they feel intentional. How do you know when to press the shutter?
IC: I realised early on that I love time.
When I was younger, I used my mother’s phone. I’d stand outside at night and wait for cars. I’d wait specifically for a white car so I could capture motion blur. I loved that.
When I got my first camera, I started taking walks. I’d go out alone, no plan. I don’t wait for a specific moment because you can bump into anything. Whatever sparks my interest, I capture it.
Light also attracts me. I know certain spots — how the sun hits, when it happens. Some moments only exist in one place, at one time.
TN: You live outside South Africa’s major creative hubs. What does it mean to be a photographer from the township — both in terms of challenge and freedom?
IC: At one point, I didn’t even want to call myself a photographer. I felt like it boxed me in.
I see myself as someone documenting their life. What I document just happens to be beautiful, and people love looking at it.
I don’t approach things like, “I’m a photographer for hire.” I prefer collaboration. I love documenting more than chasing titles or money — even though money matters.
TN: Your work centres people and places close to you. How do you navigate ethics — documentation, representation, permission — within your community?
IC: People react differently. Some are curious, some don’t want to be seen. I respect that.
There are moments where we ask permission and get rejected — and that’s okay. Other times, people invite us in.
Sometimes moments happen naturally. Someone sees the camera, engages, and something honest happens. I trust intuition, but I’m always aware that I’m dealing with people’s vulnerability.
TN: Do you see photography as preservation — of memory, culture, identity?
IC: Yes.
People are always searching for how the past looked, but there’s so little documentation. Especially in our communities.
One of my biggest reasons for capturing is to document life for future generations. I get happy seeing things I captured years ago. It reminds me that this matters.
TN: Townships are often portrayed through narrow narratives. Through your lens, they feel layered and poetic. What do you hope people feel when they see your work?
IC: I don’t really think about what people should feel.
I prefer hearing what they feel. Everyone brings their own perspective, and I respect that. When people tell me what they see or feel, that’s enough for me.
TN: How do you balance being both a participant in your community and an observer documenting it?
IC: I’m just part of the community. Most people just see me as someone with a camera.
When I go out, I observe. Whatever sparks my interest, I document it. That’s the balance.
TN: You shoot digitally, but your work often feels like film. Is that intentional?
IC: Yes. I run away from over-editing.
I try to maintain what I saw in real life. Film feels original — you don’t know exactly what you’ll get. I love colour, and I love that unpredictability.
TN: What role does light play in your storytelling?
C: Light is everything.
The sun — especially sunrise and sunset — is my favourite. But I also like challenging myself. Different light teaches you different things. Even if the moment is beautiful and the light isn’t perfect, it still tells a story.
TN: If you had to describe your creative process in three words, what would they be?
IC:
Expression.
Every time I go out, I’m expressing myself through what I see.
Patience.
I don’t care if I show work today or in 2030. I trust timing.
Unity.
Photography brings people together. Images connect us.
TN: Tell us about Take a Walk. How did the idea come about?
IC: It started with walking — noticing things, wanting others to see what I see.
The idea marinated over time. Walking is good for the body, for the mind, and it creates connection.
The first walk wasn’t perfect, but people came. People enjoyed it. Different neighbourhoods, different perspectives.
The goal is unity — slowing down, seeing beauty where you are, through my lens and beyond it.
Conclusion
Stillness does not mean stopping.
In Itumeleng’s work, stillness is awareness — the choice to walk instead of rush, to observe instead of extract, to archive life before it disappears. Through takeAwalk and his image-making practice, he reminds us that culture is not only built in galleries or cities, but in streets, sunlight, conversations, and the quiet patience of showing up.
Sometimes, the most powerful movement begins with a walk.