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Dancing Auschwitz

July 22, 2010 in dedications/responses, grandfather | 2 comments

In June 2009, Jane Korman with her kids and her holocaust survivor dad travelled to Poland, the Czech Republic and Germany to retrace her parents’ past including Oświęcim (Auschwitz). Jane says:

The installation  Dancing Auschwitz, stemmed from my desire to create artwork that conveys a fresh interpretation of historical memory. This way, the lessons of the past will not be forgotten.

Dancing Auschwitz comprises a large photographic image together with three video pieces:  a contemporary performance dance, an old video footage of a dance, and a documentary. The contemporary dance and documentary video were filmed during our recent family trip, while the old video footage is from a family home movie from my childhood.

The contemporary dance video portrays the family, comprising three generations, improvising an awkward dance to the pop song ‘I will survive.’(Gloria Gaynor, 1978) This was performed at numerous historically traumatic sites from my parents’ past. The dance expresses an attempt at celebrating life, but also evokes absence, loss and mourning.

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I can’t believe people are all offended over this. This reminded me of my beloved grandpa and so many members of my family that refused to talk about the war and now they are dead and their stories are dead and that’s it. What the fuck? How amazing is it that Korman’s dad was able to go back and DANCE. To me, this is a way to re-articulate an experience you had with joy and reclaim a place of struggle to belong to you and own it, not be owned by it.

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Dziadek

April 2, 2010 in dreams, grandfather | No comments

his office, 2005

I came to see my grandpa in Poland because he had developed Alzheimer’s and it happened quickly and he was probably going to die in the next week. The first day I was there, we talked and hugged a lot and he spoke really lucidly so I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. He seemed so enthusiastic about everything and had his charming sharp memory. The next day we woke up and his eyes started getting shifty and his enthusiasm was more erratic, even though he was able to hold conversations, he would get distracted. “Oh wow, look at that pattern on the window curtain, it’s so bright,” he would say, go up to it and fixate his gaze. I started crying, and I would hold him and tug on his shoulders. Then in the evening I realized he hadn’t eaten so I tried to bring some food into his room and he was laying all twisted on his bed in his pajamas saying he cannot eat anymore, the pain is too strong and he doesn’t think he will be able to eat again but it’s okay because he can have water. I wasn’t sure how long a person can survive without food, but I thought maybe something like a week if they just keep drinking liquids. I was trying not to break down in front of him so I ran out and cried in my room the rest of the night until the morning. I went back in as soon as the sun came up with my puffy eyes to make sure he was still alive. He looked even more indistinguishable but I tried to make him laugh, and say all those silly idioms we shared between us. He would laugh, missing all his bottom teeth because he stopped putting in his dentures. I don’t really remember the rest of the dream, but I remember each day seemed to drag on (in the dream) because as it was happening it was all going by too fast. I don’t know too much about Alzheimer’s because my grandpa died on blood poisoning, from a variety of reasons but particularly because as a dentist he had the ability to over-medicate himself. He died three days before I was supposed to fly to Poland to take care of him in 2005.

A photo of mine is in the Wychwood Barns Fundraiser Gala on April 15, but because there are many people involved and they want to maximize the donations no one is given a free pass and the tickets are 75$ so I am obviously not going. I wish I could go, the Wychwood Barns are one of my favorite places in Toronto. We might be given a discount on tickets, I don’t remember, but either way, anything higher than 0 is above my government loaned budget. I hope my photo sells because then maybe I can make a little bit of money, or at least pay back the printing and frame costs. My parents have never been on vacation since we moved to Canada 20 years ago. My parents cannot even afford my dad going back. Yes, I go back a lot, because of legal dealings and because I have attempted to set up my life so I can. I cannot imagine not being able to travel, not being able to go anywhere outside my small radius of Southern Ontario. This summer I want to sell off many of my things (even though I have so little extraneous shit) because I feel stifled and suffocated and immobilized by them. Ok, maybe most of the furniture I will put in some sort of storage space because it’s stupid to sell something you will need again, but it still has a similar effect!

Too much restlessness and anxiety make for a badly focussed Magda and I need to get this paper done by tonight no matter what.

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These Few

August 1, 2007 in grandfather, writing | No comments

Untitled, 2004 - 2007

I watched Saraband on Saturday. Saturday was the 28th. The 28th is when I left Toronto two years ago to catch a plane to arrange a funeral and deal with the passing of the most important person that’s ever been in my life. It was the day I got a phone call from my family, and my brother had to tell me because my mom was in hysterics. He fumbled the words. I remember being on my cell phone in the cross between the bedroom and bathroom door in the living room. Jason was sitting down at his desk beside me when they called. His feet up on the desk, making music. It was the afternoon, but that doesn’t make sense because he died early in the morning. Maybe it was the morning? But the six hour time difference? Maybe my grandmother didn’t call us until later, which would have made it morning. Yes, because I had to go to work that day and I had to call work that I would not be coming in and that I would be back sometime in late August and I don’t know when. They kept pestering me on the phone while I was shaking, still in partial denial shock. When you first hear of death, your body doesn’t register it as ‘gone forever’ but as a temporary mark of ‘not around right now’, only after a few seconds you hear the word ‘dead’ in your head. The conversation with my brother was very brief. He told me that mom is sending me on the next plane available. Was it that day? Or the next day? I don’t even remember. I don’t remember packing or getting to the airport. I remember brining my Zara heels because I needed to presentable for the funeral. How did I get ready? Did Jason pack for me? Was I able to eat? I was trying to figure out whether it would be worth it to bring my laptop but Jason said I should just focus on Poland and not worry. HE’S FUCKING GONE NOW, WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER WHAT HAPPENED?! Were my parents at the airport? I don’t recall seeing them. I remember numbly saying goodbye to Jason yet bawling uncontrollably. He asked if I wanted him to come with me, but I wanted to do it alone. I had to do it on my own. In the plane I read some Shopaholic book all the way through to keep myself occupied with triviality as to be somewhat manageable. I flew through Amsterdam and did yoga in the terminal. Everyone looked at me while I squatted in the waiting area by the big windows that overlook the runway. I wore my lululemon Capri pants with an olive green tank top and a black fitted tee shirt over top and my green hair ribbon tied around my neck and my olive green Fila thongs. I see myself so clearly. There was a certain freedom I felt having my bags on the stroller, skipping through Schiphol all alone. I hadn’t slept and all of my energy came from the reserve stationed for situations like these and the fact that I was going to handle all of my grandfather’s proceedings. I was in charge of it all. Of course, I had help along the way, especially considering my Polish isn’t good enough not to get ripped off. So many costs were incurred regardless. So much tension in my body to hold back tears every moment.

I woke up on the 30th of this year to find out that Ingmar Bergman had died at the age of 89. He said Saraband would be his last project. He was able to know that. He was able to let others know that. The 30th was the day after the funeral proceedings and the day I was able to finally lay to sleep.

In Saraband, Karin talks about grief and how it doesn’t subside but coping with it gets better. Do we ever let go? Do we ever accept death?

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Fleeting Hope

June 22, 2007 in grandfather, learning, loss | No comments

I regret now that my preoccupations with always thinking i’m too old have cost me years of experience, and now when I am much older I think I am ok but behind it all. I musn’t think that. I am here, I am able.

My preoccupations always cost me observations. I fell asleep shortly after getting home from work. I stayed up until 2am the night before baking banana bread, of which I’ve had almost the whole thing by now. I gave myself to work today, it was so strange to put effort into my job because I am so good at totally dissasociating myself from any task. I decided today would be different, I thought it would help me feel connected. I’d tell my boss how excited I am about the new menu project or the staff exhibition, but I am just lying. I am trying to convince myself to feel something but I feel nothing at all. If I’m going to stay with something, then I should give myself to it, but it’s so trying to do so. I don’t want it to be difficult, I want to be sincere. The disconnection drains me. I always imagined it helping me, making sure that I was still ‘me’, I wasn’t in any way my job, but instead my lack towards it stops all creativity.

How do you reach out? Is the sincerest reaching out only fulfilled when you let go of worrying about vulnerability? Why do some people put you at ease, while others you want to so badly to reach out to, make you clam up? Can I ever let go completely with everyone I want to? I want to listen to Tipper and be in a country I’ve never been to before and just lay on the grass, a thick bed of grass like in Egmont Park, Brussels, without my cell phone, my lap top, without anyone but have the music permeate me. Did my grandfather reach out? Is he dead because he didn’t want to reach out? Did we just not hear him? Why did he die five days before I was supposed to go see him? I’m on the phone with him, he seems well. He is faking it. I don’t want to believe it. I am too busy making websites, I am too busy living to admit, to observe someone I love dying in front of me. I use my work as an excuse only in part, because I don’t want the responsibility, I don’t want to give into knowing he needs me so much, he is depending on me. I want those close to me to know they can depend on me, I want to feel needed, I want to give myself to help. My eyelids are heavy with dread.

Pearson Airport

June 19, 2007 in grandfather, loss, poetry | 28 comments

Everyone is picking up their loved one and mine is dead.
Mine isn’t coming out.
Mine poisoned his blood through self-medication
three days before I got there to take care of him.
This is so unfair.
So here I am crying,
crying because he’s not here.
He could still be here.

I COULD OF CAME EARLIER.
I COULD OF STOPPED BEING SO SELFISH.
S
E
L
F
I
S
H

So I’ll never see him walk through those doors like I was used to all my life.
I only get to watch other people’s embraces.
I don’t get to participate.
I don’t get the privileged to help him
with his things while he insists that he can
carry it
himself.

Where are the hurricanes? Take me. Take me.

I want to see those gates to belong to us again.
I want your eyes wide open with excitement
not shut with shellac, while I hold you
crying tears all over your body, while
the heat is making the gel in your hair
melt.

Why?
You never did anything to your hair.
It was always cut perfect, all in your style
of the
do-it-yourself
hairstyle.
(dec 06)