Bowl of Memories

Bowl of Memories

The story goes that the level of my grandmother's cooking was so good, that she used her oven to store her mail. It never got turned on. Ever. That fabulous chicken remembered from childhood visits to her home in Brooklyn was from the deli down the street, under the El* across from Uncle Izzy's candy shop.

My grandmother was a small, but strong  woman. You had to be to run a business, raise 4 children, keep a home, and support the love of your life in his endeavors, all during the depression, and while speaking a language not your native tongue. There's even a story our uncle told us, which our mother denied, and my eldest brother adopted as a gospel truth. The icebox in one of the apartments she rented out to tenants died, and a new one was delivered, but the person who delivered it refused to take it to the 4th story walkup. It was summertime in the city. The man was no fool. Faced with a problem, and no one available to help her, my bubbe* managed to heft the thing and carried it up. By herself. Did I mention she was 5 feet tall or less? In our childhood imaginations, it was our tiny 80 something bubbe hauling the Matag refrigerator/freezer that graced out kitchen, up an impossibly long flight of stairs. Our bubbe was tough.

Hackmesser

 Our bubbe while not the best cook, did excel at a few dishes. She made a mean chopped liver, and good gefilte fish. (Each parent claimed their mother made the better gefilte fish, which resulted in my mother not making it, and opting to buy it from the deli.) When she made these dishes, she used a wooden bowl and a hackmesser, a chopper similar to a messaluna or ulu, though not crescent shaped. This variant was from Eastern Europe; messer means "knife" in German, and hack translates pretty obviously.

Chopping Bowl

The bowl where she did her chopping was simple and wooden. And she passed her bowl and hackmesser to her eldest daughter, when her daughter got married. That daughter was my mother. The bowl and chopper were ever-present in our home. I remember chopping spinach and hard cooked eggs in it as a teenager. When my mother moved to South Carolina to live with us, it moved too. Somewhere along the line, something noxious had spilled in it, staining a portion of the inside black, sinking deep into the wood, and leaving a residue that was questionable enough that nothing further was chopped in it. Resanding didn't help. The bowl stayed with us, and after my mother died, became mine. When we moved, it moved with me, because even though it was no longer used to chop, it help all those memories.

I've struggled what to do with it-- it's a hand carved bowl, with an uneven rim, and smooth sides. The inside holds the chopping scars of a multitude of meals, and has helped make the food that nourished four generations of family. I did not want to discard it, simply because it could no longer be used for what it was originally intended.

The bowl is full again, though not of food. Though I probably enjoy cooking far more than my mother or grandmother, the bowl now contains something else that is a part of me: my art. Depicted in the design are images of the cities my grandmother and mother lived. There are representations of important aspects of the lives of both, pictures of memories. Many may only be discernible to the artist, but the artist knows they are there. It is a bowl of memories. It is cherished, still. 

*elevated rail; elevated train

** bubbe (also spelled bube, bubbie, bubbeh, bobbe, bobeh and bubby)

Inspirations in Art: Thank you Jacques Hnizdovsky

I recently had the opportunity to see a show of the art of Jacques Hnizdovsky, a prolific and amazing artist born in Ukraine, who spent many years at a displaced persons camp in Germany, and eventually was able to emigrate to the United Stated, Minneapolis, Minnesota, to be exact. His art thrilled me, both in the content and execution, and in the enormous range of styles he used, each work something startling, unique, and captivating. I was drawn, especially, to the woodcuts and linocuts, their lines touching a cord with the wax lines used in pysanky. I found myself "reading" some of the symbols used, wondering if he had incorporated the language of pysanky into a print of a sheep, or a tree or a loaf of bread. I came away breathless (well, part of that was my inability to breath like a normal human being in some circumstances, not just the sheer thrill of what I'd seen) and inspired. There was also a film of Hnizdovsky, done in the latter years of his life, showing the creation of one of the woodcuts in the exhibition. I must have watched it three times, entranced by the technique he used to recreate his vision.

A year or so ago, I'd purchased some simple tools to try linocut. Finding latex-safe equipment can be a challenge, particularly for the roller, but my trusty pals at our Charleston Artist & Craftsman were up to the task, and kitted me out with a simple set. I put it in a boxI labeled "lino" and then, I  promptly got absorbed in other arts, until Hnizdovsky came into my life.

I spent a few days mulling over what to use as my subject, finally settling on adapting a pen and ink (Dragonmount) I'd already done for Patterns of the Wheel, and that, as a print, had been well-received at JordanCon. The size is smaller, and though I made a few mistakes, and have ideas what to do differently, I quite chuffed with the results.

I can hardly wait for my next project. My brain is brimming with ideas.

A tale of two Amys

 It so happened that a wonderful friend of mine (I'm looking at you, Luli) posted a photo of a saying that reminded her of many friends. It managed to combine multiple passions of mine, and was available online as a tee, and on other merchandise. I decided to get a non-shirt option as gifts for like-minded individuals. Time passed, and a package arrived at the mailbox for the czuk household. Tra la! I opened it up, and stared in puzzlement at the item within-- an article of clothing, and a note saying "enjoy your new tee shirt, Amy!"

Huh?

Then I looked at the packing slip. Though the mailing envelope was addressed to me, the packing slip was addressed to another customer, who has the same first name I do. She lives in Delaware, and is decidedly not a czuk. But, what she decidedly is is one of my best friends in the whole world. Honest. For real. We actually know each other. And somehow,here I. South Carolina,  I got her package!

What followed was a flurry of texts between the two Amys, trying to figure out what was going on. In the meantime, the company had figured out they'd mailed a package for one customer to another with the same first name. They wrote me, explaining the error, told me my package was coming, and to keep the merchandise sent in error. 

How could I resist? It seemed made for me!

Thank you Culture Flock! And thanks to my girlfriends for being the greatest (even unintentionally, and from afar)!

Eudora's Owl: Thoughts on being an artist

So, I've been thinking a lot about creativity.  I had an art teacher when I was in eighth grade who told me that if I ever hoped to be an artist, she hoped I married well, because otherwise, I'd starve. I believed her. After all she was an adult, and an artist, and my teacher. Surely she knew what she was talking about.

For years, I puttered about creating jewelry, crocheting, embroidering, messing with polymer clay or beads, but never thought of myself as an artist.  Even when I began writing pysanky, I still thought of myself as a dabbler.  It wasn't until I started donating things I made to charity for silent auctions that I began to think maybe my eighth grade teacher might have had her head up her bum when she gave her advice -- and this was only because I began to see my creations offered and listed as art, not as jewelry or crafts, or junk. People began asking for pysanky for special occasions, or commissioning them (which I would do for a donation to one of the charities I support, rather than for my own profit.) Then several of my pysanky were accepted by the Ukrainian Art Museum for their collection, and I had to rethink my self-definition.

Lately, I'm trying new mediums with my pysanky skills.  I'd written a number of bags and satchels, even an ice chest, with rave reviews, and thought maybe I can apply the pysanky symbols in other ways. So, I've been playing with colored pencils, paints, and markers, and having a wonderful time.

Today, this little owl was born. It's destined for Eudora, the youngest daughter of some dear friends. One of her first words was "owl" and she loves the birds.  Hope she likes it. I had fun bringing it to being. And see that egg in the basket below?  The one at the 6:00 position? that's the one I've saved for my eighth grade art teacher, just to prove that once I stopped listening to her wretched advice, I found my art.