STORY 53
In 1962, a young production planner at the AECI Dynamite Factory made a decision that would alter not only the course of his own life, but quietly influence the photographic history of the Helderberg district for decades to come.
His name was Theo Naudé.
At the time, steady employment at the Dynamite Factory was considered secure and respectable. The factory, situated between Somerset West and Strand, had long been one of the region’s major employers. Men built careers there. Families depended on its wages. Theo’s brother Peter continued working at the plant, following the path that many regarded as sensible and predictable.
Theo chose otherwise.
The decision came shortly after another life-changing event, his marriage. With the responsibilities of a young family ahead of him, walking away from a stable position could hardly have seemed prudent. Yet some people possess a restlessness that office walls cannot contain. Theo was one of them.
Together with his brother-in-law Jimmy, known to everyone as “Jumbo,” and a friend named Marines, he set up an entirely different venture, the three of them as partners in the new business. One room of Theo’s house was transformed into a makeshift sound studio, equipped with recording equipment and even a light box indicating whether broadcasting was in progress. It was ambitious, experimental and slightly unconventional for the Helderberg of the early 1960s.
Photography and filmmaking soon followed.
The small team became a local production unit of sorts. Marines operated the cine camera, Jimmy handled sound and whatever other tasks needed doing, while Theo directed the operation. Their subjects were often local events that today would be considered priceless visual records of a vanished era.
Among the productions remembered was a film of the Gordon’s Bay hill climb, held on the steep road leading towards the water filtration plant above the town. Formula Libre racing cars and other competitors thundered up the mountain road in timed trials while spectators lined the route. For a few hours the quiet coastal village became a motorsport venue and Theo’s camera was there to capture it.
As happens with many ventures born from enthusiasm rather than structure, the group eventually dispersed. Jimmy moved on to other pursuits. Marines later established himself as a film producer in Johannesburg. Theo, however, remained faithful to the medium that had increasingly captured his imagination.
Photography.
He opened a photographic studio on Main Road in Somerset West.
What followed mirrored the evolution of photography itself.
The early years revolved around black-and-white film, darkrooms and chemicals. Every image required patience, skill and manual labour. Darkrooms had to be built and rebuilt as the business expanded. Film developing occurred in one room, printing in another. Walls and ceilings were painted black to eliminate unwanted reflections. Every enlargement emerged slowly beneath the glow of the red safelight.
As his nephew, my own involvement went beyond just watching. There was always construction and chemistry to be part of too. School holidays and weekends often became extensions of the working week. Paintbrushes were handed out. Construction projects appeared without warning. New premises meant new darkrooms, new counters and new printing areas. Somewhere amongst the smell of chemicals and drying photographs, an interest in photography itself quietly took root in me.
By the 1970s, photography was undergoing its own revolution.
Technicolour era. Colour photography, once expensive and technically demanding, was becoming increasingly popular. Until then, local photographers generally had to send colour film to Cape Town for processing, creating delays that could frustrate both photographers and clients.
Theo recognised the opportunity.
He established the first colour processing laboratory in the Helderberg area under the name ColorPrint, a division of JMT Studios. Suddenly colour photographs could be processed locally. What had once taken days could now be completed much faster. For local photographers and businesses, it represented a significant technological leap.
The studio’s client list grew steadily.
Parliamentary openings and official government functions brought Theo into contact with politicians and dignitaries. He photographed members of Parliament, industrial installations, machinery, schools, military units and countless properties throughout the region. Wedding photography became another major part of the business, particularly among prominent families.
One wedding in particular, which I attended as his assistant, remained unforgettable for me. The groom was Alan Garrity, one of South Africa’s most popular recording artists of the era, known for hits such as “Put Your Hand in the Hand,” a South African No. 1 in 1971, along with “Santa Maria” and “Home Isn’t Home Anymore.” As often happened during photographic assignments, the assistant became responsible for far more than carrying equipment. On this occasion it involved me driving the mother-in-law’s vehicle from Durbanville to Three Anchor Bay despite possessing nothing more than a learner’s licence.
Such were the unexpected responsibilities of photographic apprenticeships.
Yet perhaps Theo’s most innovative work occurred away from the camera itself.
Because he controlled his own colour laboratory, he was free to experiment with new products and ideas. One concept was remarkably ahead of its time: personalised photographic business cards.
Today they seem commonplace. In the 1970s they were revolutionary.
Clients would sit for a portrait session and select their preferred image. The card layout was then painstakingly assembled using Letraset transfer lettering. Every line of text had to be individually positioned and rubbed into place by hand. There were no computers, graphic design software or digital printers. The office typewriter represented the cutting edge of available technology.
Once the layout was complete, a new negative was created. If approved, it became the master image used to print hundreds of business cards onto rolls of photographic paper. Each card then had to be cut individually by hand.
Deadlines were relentless.
Many nights ended at three or four o’clock in the morning, with stacks of freshly printed cards waiting to be trimmed and packaged before clients arrived.
Beyond the commercial success, Theo became deeply involved in organised photography. He served as chairman of the Helderberg Photographic Society and was an active member of the Photographic Society of South Africa (PSSA), the national body representing photographers and camera clubs across the country. His expertise earned him appointments as a judge on numerous photographic panels and competitions.
His influence extended far beyond his own photographs. He helped shape the standards by which others were measured.
Eventually retirement arrived.
The commercial pressures disappeared. The deadlines faded. The darkrooms fell silent.
Yet photographers rarely stop seeing.
Even in retirement, Theo continued to photograph what interested him, occasional models, flowers in his garden, moments of beauty that demanded no client approval and carried no delivery date.
The cameras became lighter. Film gave way to digital sensors. The industry transformed almost beyond recognition. Knowledge of a good photograph remained the same.
But at the centre of it all remained the same decision made decades earlier.
A young man walking away from a secure office job at a dynamite factory because he believed there might be something more interesting waiting on the other side of uncertainty.
And he was right.
Between You and Me:
Most people remember photographs. Very few remember the photographers.
We frame the wedding picture, admire the portrait or preserve the family album, often without giving much thought to the person standing behind the camera when the shutter clicked. Yet photographers spend their lives preserving everyone else’s memories while quietly disappearing from the frame themselves.
When I think of Theo, I don’t think first about the photographs he took. I think about the darkrooms. The smell of chemicals. The smell of Texan plain he smoked. The black paint on walls that seemed to require endless coats. The late nights. The construction projects. The rolls of photographic paper waiting to be cut. The strange mixture of art, technology and hard work that photography demanded before computers arrived to simplify it all.
Most of all, I think about the courage it took to leave certainty behind. Walking away from a secure salary at the Dynamite Factory to chase something as uncertain as photography must have looked reckless to many people in 1962.
But every photograph begins with someone deciding that a moment is worth capturing.
Perhaps every worthwhile life begins the same way.
Today it’s become happy snaps and selfies. A “good” photograph is one you see yourself in, not one that is good in the professional sense.
Historian – Harmen Bockelenberg
Next week: the man who started Station 9 — how Gordon’s Bay got its sea rescue service and the wooden shed where it began.
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