On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
collective archive of women's memory
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When my grandmother was still alive, I used to go through her photos and ask her to tell me stories about the people in those photographs. I am happy now that I wrote down some dates, names, and even other facts about the lives of people whom I never met but who were still a part of my life. I repeatedly asked her to tell me stories about the war, about her boyfriends, about how she lived back then, when she was young. I did write a few stories for my homework assignment when I was twelve. And that’s it. All other memories of her are fading and transforming with time. No one can verify the facts; memory is fluid, like water, influenced by tributaries, in danger of evaporating.
Anthropologists and other scientists are using the biographical method for their research. They return multiple times to the same person to record the same story, which might differ each time. Is factual accuracy important here? Or is it the emotion, the feeling, the texture of this memory that truly matters? What is the real story, and who holds authority over the real narrative? Our experiences shape it, both in what we encounter and how we interpret it.
Similarly, when we hear someone else’s story, we experience it again in our own way, through our own emotions evoked by the teller's emotions, by the images we see in the story, and by the sounds we hear. The storyteller owns their version of the story. The phenomenon of recalling events differently, experiencing memory glitches, or grappling with trauma is profound.
I don’t know if the stories about the war my grandmother would tell are accurate. But I know that is how it happened to her. I wrote it in the way I experienced it while listening to her; they became a part of my memory about her long before I met her. Her image is vivid in my memory; she looks like in this picture I keep on my table. I always found her looking happy in it.
I think and write about my grandmother long after she has passed away. Ocean Vuong dedicated a book to my mother while she was still alive. He wrote his book as if it were a long letter to her, imagining her presence as if she were in front of him, patiently listening. The title of the book is the same name I borrowed for this archive – 'On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.' To me, it signifies the combination of fragility and temporality, scale, and strength. For me, it describes herstory.
So why create a collective archive without a focus on geography, time, or topic? There are countless untold stories that could vanish. Yet, there are also many stories already collected. Often, they reflect the current interests of the documenting researcher. I want storytellers to choose what they wish to share, what is important to them, rather than to me. The intention here is to reject linearity in time and dissolve geographical borders, despite the factual elements in the stories. These facts contribute to the memory but do not necessarily dictate its importance. Thus, the interlinked stories weave together to form a fabric of sensitive, sad, happy, heavy, joyful, tragic, and wholly authentic life memories.
I’m grateful to beautiful contributors: Ale Zapata, Barbora Horská, Tahereh Nourani, Yulia Mak, Dominykas Cinauskas, Céline Struger, Rychèl Thérin.
And to people whose projects inspire me: Elmira Kakabayeva, Marija Šabanović, Apple Yi Jiang.
The project is curated by Justina Špeirokaitė
I’m grateful to beautiful contributors: Ale Zapata, Barbora Horská, Tahereh Nourani, Yulia Mak, Dominykas Cinauskas, Céline Struger, Rychèl Thérin.
And to people whose projects inspire me: Elmira Kakabayeva, Marija Šabanović, Apple Yi Jiang.
Curated by Justina Špeirokaitė
Music has a way of weaving itself into the fabric of our lives, connecting disparate threads and shaping our paths in unexpected ways.
E:
There were very few Lithuanian children in Chirkin, just my brother and me. We were educated only in Russian, and when we moved to Lithuania, I struggled to speak Lithuanian fluently. When we were exiled, we had some knowledge of Russian, thanks to my mother taking in a Russian woman, Chitrova (whom the kids nicknamed Cioce), during the German occupation. Chitrova, who was a music teacher, lived with us and was initially in poor health, but later recovered. Back in Panevėžys, she was the first person to teach us music. G. may have a better memory of how Chitrova came to live with us.
G:
Chitrova came into our family in 1944 or 1945, when the Germans were transporting Russians from Pskov and their echelon stopped in Anykščiai. All the women of the town cooked soups and brought food to feed the children and other people from there, who were exhausted and dying. My mother found out that there was a music teacher among them. She was in bad shape due to her terribly wounded legs. My mother cleaned her and took care of her, and just like that, Chitrova recovered. She ended up living with us for a long time and became like a member of the family. I was studying in Kaunas when the rest of my family were taken away, Chitrova had already started working at a music school in Panevėžys. She claimed that our piano was her instrument so that the new government wouldn't take it away. Later, she sold the piano and sent us the money. These are just some of the things that Chitrova did for us.
G:
In 1949 I already knew that life is easier for people who have a connection with music. (There must be quite a big lack of music in life because I never really lacked work anywhere. And in Siberia I was always able to earn my bread). I sat down and played the piano. I didn't pack anything because it seemed like life was falling apart and I didn't need anything.
G:
I remember vividly playing Chopin's 3rd Ballad. It allowed me to release my emotions due to its sharp climax. I was practising for an upcoming concert and had already mastered it. I must have played that climax a hundred times, as it was intense and dramatic. They put me in the car with all the bundles and the accordion. And we left ...
E:
When I graduated from high school in 1955, I also considered going to music school, but G. was against it. She said, "We don't need two pianists." So, I decided to pursue geology instead like my brother.
E:
During the holidays in Zima, the work was very demanding. We had to stretch the planks and foundations, and missing any logs meant having to work long hours on the second shift. One of my colleagues used to taunt me, saying "Это не тебе играть на аккордеоне", which roughly translates to "It's not for you to play the accordion".
E:
I always wanted to learn music and after returning home, I was determined to pursue this interest. I came across an article in the newspaper about a man named Algirdas Ločeris who was organizing an accordion ensemble. I joined the Ločeris ensemble and played with them in Vilnius. Mr. Ločeris recognized my talent and encouraged me to pursue formal education in music. With his help, I got into the Vilnius Music Technical College and graduated. I worked in geology for ten years before switching to teaching music. Although I regret not pursuing music earlier in my life, my passion for it has always been strong.
My mum met my father at a dance, two weeks after escaping an abusive marriage with two young children in tow. It was the 1970's in New Zealand, and organised dances were the way you socialised back then. I like to think he would have met her on the dancefloor when she was lost in the music, looking as elegant and happy-go-lucky as she is in the picture.
This photo was taken at the 21st birthday party of one of her five brothers in the carport of our papakainga (family home). You can see she's having a great time, and that dancing is in her heart. My brothers would have been young when this was taken, maybe three and four years old. She would have still been with her abusive partner at this time, he was probably lurking out the back of the carport when the shutter clicked. Hard to imagine this was going on beyond the reach of the photo.
I archived the photo album collection of my maternal grandparents earlier this year; out of all the photos of my mother, this is my favourite. A queen of the dancefloor, happiest flowing with the rhythm, never giving in to how dire life might be - there are always chances to rise and shine.
Fifteen years old and finally free from your own mother—at least for a moment—at the same school, I will seek refuge from you years later. High school years, the only moment I remember you always talking about with genuine joy, and I imagine it was the moment of true hope, the place in-between—after the "eldest daughter" archetype and before the "abused wife" identity—long-term traumas that took entirely over and didn't leave much space for YOU. I can only wonder what you were like at that time because the combination of unconscious survival strategies is the only version I have ever known of you. Still, I keep this image as a reminder that that is not ALL of you and that the essence can never be lost, only buried—temporarily. As we are selling the place I grew up in now and you are preparing for a big move, I can feel this abandoned self trembling beneath the surface, still a bit too shy, but nevertheless awaking to the possibility of living a life—for yourself—and not as a way of surviving active danger or in expectation of it. In a sense, your move forward is, in fact, a return—to the moment where you knew you have a choice. And I hope, we can finally meet.
This memory is a hand-me-down memory of my maternal grandmother from my mother:
"When I was at boarding school, we were coming out of church one day and one of the prefects said 'Look at that good looking woman across the street!' It was my mother, and I didnt know she was coming to visit me for the first time since I joined the school. I thought that was something special. She was wearing a red coat and sunglasses, she looked like a film star. That was when she told me that I had an elder sister called Judith, that Dad was her father too. She gave me her address so I could write to her."
That was life back then, the bitter and the sweet. It goes much the same now I suppose.
This photo was taken in 1941 when you were 28 years old. You had your child out of wedlock in 1933 at the age of twenty. In the years following, as an unmarried single mother, you found employment as a calligrapher for the municipality, handwriting birth-, marriage-, and death certificates. In 1938, public employees were required to join the NSDAP in order to retain their jobs, and so you did. Born with a Slavic name, you forged your own birth certificate and adopted a German-sounding name as more and more members of the Slovenian community were taken away by the military. Starting with friends and family, you began reissuing fake birth certificates for the villagers. Concurrently, you ceased speaking your mother tongue. Thus, in this official photograph, you present yourself as a German woman.
In the 1960s, you attempted to legally reclaim your real name, but officials informed you that proceeding with your demand would result in prosecution for forgery. After suffering a stroke in 2012, you exclusively spoke Slovenian once again.
I imagine you came into this world dancing. In a time and a place, where a woman dancing was in itself a form of rebellion. I did not know you before you were a mother to me. Before you took me to the mountains, taught me how to draw, took me to my first music lessons, taught me how to ride a bike, taught me about 8th of March and gave me Simone de Beauvoir to read. Later I learned that before I knew you, you were a teacher, you were an artist, you were a climate activist. You were a dreamer and an angry feminist, who danced through life till the end. Long after you were gone, I began to understand your anger.... May you still be dancing, wherever you are and may you not have to be angry there...
You were born in the Soviet Union in a remote northern city. Because you were always prone to colds, mother and grandmother swaddled you in hand-knitted warm blankets and later added extra layers of knitted vests and underpants under your clothes so no one could see there was something different but it was. As a schoolgirl, you did look different even when wearing a standard uniformt. Your apron was hand-sewn by your mother, warm underwear knitted by your maternal grandmother, and collars and cuffs were crocheted by your paternal grandmother. You would stitch them to your uniform dress twice a week, wash and steam them. Making the first crocheted bonnet for your doll at six, you took up knitting and sewing at twelve. Today you use all these skills and bodily memories in your art practice. You are me and I am thankful to these three women in my family to be me the way I am.
(I chose a picture of women to reveal their interdependence and
generational support)
1980er, Westdeutschland
Ein Bauernhaus im Dorf.
Eine Küche mit mehreren Generationen an Frauen.
Ein Holzschrank vor senffarbener Tapete.
Eine Frau, frisch geschieden, strahlend weißer Pulli.
Sie arbeitet eifrig an ihrer finanziellen Unabhängigkeit.
Sie kommt jeden Tag zu Besuch in ihr Elternhaus.
Sie kümmert sich um ihre krebskranke Mutter.
Der Mutter fallen die Haare aus.
Die Schwägerin eilt von rechts ins Bild.
„Nix ist mir zu viel.“
Die Pflege für die Schwiegermutter ist ihr nicht zu viel.
Aus Dankbarkeit für die Unterstützung mit ihren drei Kindern.
„Das hätte ich nie alleine geschafft“, sagt die Schwägerin.
Pflege braucht Zeit.
Die älteste Enkelin liegt mit dem Bauch auf dem Küchentisch.
Ramybės jausmas pokario metu. Galbūt tuo metu tu jau žinojai, kad paliksi savo gimtuosius metus, išvažiuosi į didelį miestą, pradėsi savo naują gyvenimą su savo nauju vyru. Žinau, kad tu visada labai norėjai palikti kaimą. Tikėjaisi, kad mieste gyvenimas lengvesnis. Deja, gyvenimas parodė kitaip. Nauja valdžia, naujos taisyklės, visur reikia laukti. Dar daug metų teks sunkiai dirbti kol turėsi savo namus. Namus, kuriuose po dar daugiau metų augsiu ir aš.
Tuose namuose aš klausysiu tavo istorijų, prašysiu jas vėl ir vėl pakartoti. Tau patiko pasakoti, tik, gaila, aš ne viską atsimenu, ne visko išklausinėjau. Atsimenu, išėjai iš slėptuvės parsinešti pieno ir kulka praskrido tau šalia galvos. Aš visada turėjau vienodą šio atsiminimo vaizdą, bet jis ne toks, kaip tai buvo iš tikrųjų, tai mano tavo prisiminimo vizualizacija. Aš ilgai tikėjau to vaizdinio tikrumu. Galbūt pradėjau to abejoti tik pamačius tavo gimtuosius namus, kurie buvo daug mažesni, nei tavo pasakojimuose. Vis bandžiau surasti tuo verandos laiptus, per kuriuos pervažiavo tankas. Gal vis dėlto, tai nebuvo laiptai, norėčiau vėl paklausti. Dar norėčiau sužinoti, kur slėpėtės, kad neišvežtų į Sibirą, kažkodėl apie tai neatsimenu, gal tu ir nepasakojai.. Kaip baisu turėjo būti stebėti, kaip sušaudomi kaimynai. Tai dar vienas ryškus tavo prisiminimas, kuriam sukūriau ekranizaciją savo atmintyje. Nenorėčiau dar kartą tos istorijos išgirsti, ji jau ir taip per giliau įsirėžė mano atmintyje.
Daug galiu apie tave papasakoti, bet labai daug ir nežinau ir jau nesužinosiu. Pasilieku tave toje tarpinėje ramybės būsenoje, po kažko siaubingo iki kažko nežinomo.