Jenny’s Brooklyn by Jennifer Reres

 For my great grandmother & namesake.

Jenny's Brooklyn

Oh Jenny

What was this journey

For you many moons ago

Before I was born

When you left your

Island paradise of

Shaded lemon trees

And olive groves

When you crossed the ocean

To this teeming, cold city

To this little town called Brooklyn

On 65th Street around 

The corner from Regina Pacis

We didn't speak the

Same tongue

Instead you made us 

Homemade pasta

Kneaded with your hands 

In the morning dawn

A love letter to your family

And beautiful Sicilian 

Countryside you never saw

Again.

Jennifer Reres.

My great grandmother Jenny when she was young in Sicily

My great grandparents who lived in Brooklyn most of their lives. 

Mama Lucila by Clemencia Labin.

The Garden of Villa Carmen 

                                                                

Mama Lucila was always slender, wore her hair in a bun on the back of her neck, dressed in half-mourning clothes and wore a belt of the same fabric, from which she hung a key ring with a pink pompom with the keys to her closet and pantry. These keys were sacred and she never let them out of her sight at any time. 

  My Grandmother Lucila's gardener's name was Rafael, a man of medium height, but stocky and jovial. When my parents went on vacation, they always left me with my grandmother and I adapted to her routine. 

We would get up early and go out into the courtyard. We would sit on blue stools and drink the brewed coffee with milk that Anita prepared. She would whisk it by hand over low heat so that there would be no lumps, and heat it in a large aluminum pot so thin that it was not heavy, as it seemed to be made of paper. Slices of sweet bread with Palmi Zulia white cheese, with big holes, were always part of our breakfasts. It was a joy to start the day early, feeling the freshness of the dawn and the smell of the earth still wet. I loved to soak my bread in the coffee with milk and lots of sugar, because it tasted like bread cake. Mamá Lucila would spoon the hot coffee from the cup to the saucer and blow on it so that I would sip it, without getting burned. Then she would stand up and look into the pantry for the cloth bags where they kept the stale bread, which she chopped into small pieces, to soak it with milk in the many plastic containers. Placing the containers in such perfect straight rows that they reminded one of a military parade. 

There was an enclosure at the back of the garden, behind the tennis court with some very cute deer, yaguasas or small ducks, There was also a beautiful yellow-crested curassow and a few common ducks, roosters, hens and dogs. After finishing her chores, she would inspect the cages with her favorite exotic birds, located on the left side of the house's patio, and Rafael would patiently follow her. Many of these birds had been gifts from her children, who knew her weakness and tried to get her unique specimens of great beauty or good singers. They joked among themselves that this was undoubtedly the best way to "win points with Lucila". By this they meant to win her affection or preference. 

I remember two huge cages, white with pink, which Rafael called Chinese type, full of birds of tropical colors. Mama Lucila used to say that they stood out better in there, because of the contrast of their strong colors with the paleness of the cage. Among the species I remember, there were larks, nymphs, red-crested cardinals, red-winged blackbirds. 

In the central courtyard of the kitchen, the macaws' cage was the opposite, round and brightly colored. Green underneath with a red roof. There was also a kind of wooden pole, anchored in the ground at the edge of the backyard, where the red and blue macaws would perch at times when they were taken out to clean. They were tied to the pole with long metal chains, which Rafael tied to one of their legs, so that they could not fly. The macaws would also cry out "Rafael, Rafael" from time to time, surely, they had learned his name from hearing grandmother repeat it again and again. The white cockatoo with the yellow crest whistled and hated females. She would get jealous or hysterical if one of us approached the gardener and tried to bite us to keep us away. 

Aunt Iria used to say that our grandmother was so passionate about her garden that anyone who came to visit, regardless of rank, would be put to work. Even a senator of the Republic, who came one day to ask for economic help for his political party, Copei, was forced to plant with her for a while, in order to achieve his purpose. 

Another thing I remember, because they called my attention, were some implants or mixed plants arrangements that they prepared and that Rafael planted in big cans of "Del Monte" canned food. They removed the paper labels and left the cans clean, to open two holes at the same height, where they put a long cord, which allowed them to hang the cans high and tie them to the trunks of trees. In this way, what was planted had shade and protection. Undoubtedly, a wonderful solution of natural recycling, for a time when nobody talked about it. 

In the backyard of the house there was also a lush bush of big and sweet "mamónes" fruits, which we ate with pleasure, while playing hide and seek. 

In the front yard there were two round masonry pools painted in gray, filled with many little fishes of faint colors, surrounded by green Lotus plants. 

The terrace was also adorned by two giant masonry amphoras filled with white lilies. Along the front fence, orange poppies and four beautiful young "chaguaramos" Palms, lined up like sentinels framing the entrance, welcoming any visitor. 

                 Jardín delantero. Papá y Mamá de novios. Mamá sentada sobre la piscina gris de mampostería. 

                                    

                                    

mage captions: 

Familía no son solo recuerdos de vivencias pasadas, sino la red emocional que ayuda a definir al individuo, dándole identidad. 

Familie ist nicht nur die Erinnerung an vergangene Erfahrungen, sondern das emotionale Netzwerk, das dem Einzelnen hilft, sich zu definieren und ihm eine Identität zu geben. 

Family is not only memories of past experiences, but the emotional network that helps define the individual, giving him or her identity. 

                                                               

... it's noon on any given Sunday in Maracaibo and Villa Carmen opens its doors to welcome the family troop. Anita has been preparing the different dishes for two days: vegetable soup, Russian salad, baked ham with pineapple, macaroni and corn and "petipua", sweet and sour roasted ribs, fried slices with grated cheese of the year, cream-filled puffs covered with hot chocolate, fruit salad with "Alfa" ice cream with queen cream. 

Almost everyone arrives after mass and at the voice of "served" without much ado they begin to devour. No one waits for the other, each one serves himself and when more, serves his partner, taking advantage of always taking the best. Little dialogue, little courtesy and great voracity. According to their ages and family rank they take possession of the opulent banquet at the main dining table. The younger ones and the children gather in the "pantry" where they claim "colitas" and orange crush. 

Gradually the hustle and bustle subsides and satisfied, they begin to move to the side patio. They take over the rocking chairs, chairs, armchairs, stools and anything else they can find to sit on. Questions, stories of impressions or events of the week, gossip and the latest "balls" start to roll. Some aunts start singing and encourage younger ones to recite.

Other nephews and nieces offer the older ones their services of scratching, pulling out gray hair or pinching and massaging to improve circulation, in exchange for a small monetary remuneration. Applause, murmurs, laughter and laughter are heard and hot and fragrant coffee is drunk as a final ceremony. 

                                                               

The cockatoo of Villa Carmen

Loud and noisy, the cockatoo in the backyard of my grandmother Lucila's house makes its presence known. She feels like a queen and does not allow contradictions or interference from other plebeian birds or the few humans that pass through the garden at this time of day. 

Very white feathers contrast with the jet black of its beak and claws, being the neon yellow crest, like Elvis, its greatest attraction. 

By its exquisite way of eating, selecting we recognize its rank.. its highness feels at ease in the garden of Villa Carmen. 

Story and artworks by Clemencia Labin.

Linda mapped out prayer in honor of her grandmother.

This body of work was made after the death of my grandmother in 2017 and serves as a memorial to her. There are four things to know about her: she was an Armenian immigrant from Istanbul who emigrated to Massachusetts in the 1980s; she was fiercely devout; she was a talented seamstress; and she had a collection of prayer books that she would often read from. After her death, I inherited a couple of these books.

 

This work was partly inspired by medieval reliquaries, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, known for their ornate decorative details and their devotional appeal. In my sculptures and collages, I’ve incorporated reproductions of imagery from the prayer books, as well as certain words: “Lord,” “God,” and “Holy” (in Armenian). As I contemplate the placement of words within these compositions, I feel like I am mapping out a prayer in her honor—the repetition of words like a spiritual incantation.

 

Other elements complete my portrait of her. I collected metal scraps from a local lighting factory, which I employed as ornamental flourishes, but they also reminded me of the metal hardware connected to her vocation: the old Singer machine with its steel parts, the bobbins, thimbles, and other tools. It also seemed fitting to include some sewing pins and velvet scraps. For what could not be found, I modeled small clay elements to represent plaited fabric and trim and sewing notions. In the collages, I include prints from postcards of the village she was from originally in Turkey, from which her family survived the Armenian genocide and lived till they made their way to Istanbul decades later. The mannequin hands in Her Hands My Hands were a way for me to conjoin our labor together over time as craftspeople--she as a seamstress, me as a sculptor. 

 

Through composing and constructing, cutting and gluing, I invent a sacred landscape as a way to channel my grief—creation as an antidote to loss. One of the reliefs, Map of Her Prayers #3, actually contains her worry beads in the central compartment. Touching the objects she had once touched transports me across the divide between us. But beyond that, I feel she is with me when I make this work; I keep a small photo of her in my studio and hang it high on the wall above my desk to actualize this feeling.

Map of Her Prayers #3, (metal pieces, board, paint, vintage prayer book, plastic jewels, velvet, prayer beads in pill capsule, on wood), 13'' x 13'' x 4'', 2019.         

          Detail, May of Her Prayers #3.

 

 Detail, Her Hands My Hands.

Detail, Her Hands My Hands.

Amasya Heart and Bones, mixed media (ink, watercolor, origami paper, patternmaking paper, giclee, old postcards on paper), 22’’ x 30’’, 2023.

 Detail, Amasya Heart and Bones.

 Photos of artist with her grandmother from 1970.

 Photo of artist with grandmother from 1990.

 Photo of artist’s grandmother in her hand (later was hung on wall).

 

Necklaces Through Generations

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival was a fantastic experience; I saw terrific theatrical projects and a beautiful art exhibition by Grayson Perry surrounded by lovely friends and Paul.

 I had the opportunity to conduct Let's Take a Walk #58 with a fantastic team. Thank you dear friends.

Please visit the Let's Take a Walk Blog.

Paul and I attended The Beyond Border Festival, and I had the chance to meet Aimee Lounge, a wonderful poet. Aimee wore beautiful necklaces from her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. I enjoyed the poetry and musical performances of the festival, a wonderful part of this very informative and thought-provoking festival.

It was beautiful to spend some time sitting on a bench and exchanging stories with Aimee. Thank you for pointing out the magnificent path beyond the house; the trees were magnificent.

Please see Aimee's poems here below.

 

From Dust and Air, my Grandmother and a Windmill by Arnaldo Drés González

Photography artwork by Arnaldo Drés González
Documentation by Allan Ginsburg.

From Dust and Air, my Grandmother and a Windmill.

By Arnaldo Drés González

Between popular songs about windmills, thinking about my home, communication from the distance and the migrant feeling, the concept of a physical postcard is multi diverse. The written postcard, with images, moving image or with a voice message, as what we have in contemporaneity, expand the possibilities of continuing to inhabit our memories and remembrances. 

The mill element was often used for decades to describe literally or figuratively fictitious texts of folk wisdom and the history of a nation's development. In Spanish culture, for example, sayings, riddles and songs abound, which now survive in printed texts and some audio recordings with different fragments that can be found on the web. Many songs tell us about mills, miller, mill woman, millstones, wind, wheat, corn and stones. Songs that have been sung, covered and reinvented by generations of our ancestors over the years. Our grandparents surely know this very well. It is obvious how important mills were as an integral part of everyday life, and even past life, in a society where everyone went to get something simple like bread. Today, traces of a social, industrial and cultural evolution of the mills remain. Their imaginary being portrayed in postcards for tourist consumption. For some it will be only beautiful images of a place, for others, an image that tells us much more about what we see.

How much can a postcard of the old Buenavista mill in Sa Punta des Molí (1818) in Ibiza portray, narrate or evoke? Is its existence a myth in its own aura? Are the blades of the mill a myth of the temporality of global life? Something like when everything starts and returns to its starting point. Like the migration of my grandmother from the Canary Islands to Venezuela in the fifties due to the serious economic difficulties that Spain was going through since the late forties, and nowadays, the migratory turn of her descendants to their point of origin, like me, who have migrated from Venezuela to Europe while other migratory waves are happening to other parts of the world in the XXI century.

A curious case is that near the Molino de Sa Punta des Molí there is a house where the well-known German philosopher of Jewish origin Walter Benjamin (Berlin, 1892 - Port Bou, Spain, 1940) lived, who reflects in his writings about his life and his history through his collection of postcards, including those missing postcards with which he allowed himself to inhabit those landscapes that his traveling grandmother sent him from her travels around the world. Probably, the same thing happened to my grandmother in Venezuela when she saw photographs of me in the snow in Germany, which I shared with her from a distance by instant messaging from my cell phone. However, this ability to inhabit is also possible from the stories that people tell, sometimes sung in traditional songs and that, like a photography, a drawing or a painting, transmit images to our imagination. It is like a small window that expands like a ray of light when we open it with our heart and emotion.

"There is a secret agreement between past generations and the present one". "The true picture of the past flits by. The past can be seized only as an image which flashes up at the instant when it can be recognized and is never seen again".

Fragments of theses 2 and 5. Theses on the philosophy of history, 1940.

Walter Benjamin

"From Dust and Air, my Grandmother and a Windmill" is an artwork presented at the first edition of the contemporary art event ENTRÁNSITO, at Centro Cultural Sa Punta des Molí - San Antoni de Portmany (Ibiza), April 2023.

Click to listen to the Soundscape 

Soundscape Description Translation from Spanish (Original) to English

The wind can be heard and maybe some waves from the sea as a group of women try to remember to sing a couplet about a mill: 

In the mill no air passes and olé, no air passes and olé, no air passes and olé. 

Someone in the group corrects them: Should this be repeated or not?

They sing again: Knead the dust and the sand 

A new correction: is Flour!

They begin again:

Knead the dust and the flour that carries the air and olé, that carries the air and olé, that carries the air and olé, olé, that carries the air.

A singer appears:

Because the miller says he has no one to go with him, come with me to the mill and you will be my mill woman. You throw the wheat in the hopper, you throw the wheat in the hopper, while I pick the stone, come with me to the mill and you'll be my mill woman.

A voice message from my grandmother from Venezuela appears:

Hello! A lot of snow, my love, a lot of snow? Oh, be careful! You'll get cold, you know. Hey Arnaldo, how will that be, my love, there with the snow and then drinking a cup of hot coffee, right? Very good. 

Look, it gave me a thrill. I don't know how many weeks it's been since I've not seen your brother, but he has to comply with his obligations. Well, my love, God bless you, a big, big hug! And a big kiss! Please give your sister a hug for me, I send it to her. Did you get it? O.K. God bless you.

Other women's voices join in singing:

Miller, miller, only my mill knows, how much I love you, Oh my miller! And in the happy moment where the blades of the mill are stirring, there was heard a lament of a divine kiss, of corn and wheat so divine. Miller, miller, only my mill knows, how much I love you, Oh my miller! Singing and dancing and thinking of my poor miller, I go through life without another partner, of corn and pleasant wheat. Miller, miller, only my miller knows, how much I love you, Oh my miller!

Installation Arnaldo Drés González, photographed by the artist.

"From Dust and Air, my Grandmother and a Windmill" is part of the project "Resguardo y Presencia/ Shelter and Presence" that explores the appropriation of materials from the urban landscape to recreate the ambiguity of human relationships, social values, tensions and conflicts of everyday life. Based on the allegory of the green fabrics that cover the facades of disintegrating buildings and protect nearby passersby, Arnaldo Drés González turns these functional aesthetic appearances into poetic narratives that together with the intervention of the human body in video and photography generate metaphors of existence, fear, shelter, identity, transit and territory.

Arnaldo Drés González (b. 1986, Caracas - Venezuela). Since 2014 lives and works in Hamburg, Germany. Graduated from the fine arts department of UNEARTE in Caracas (2011) and holds a master's degree from the Hochschule für Künste im Sozialen (HKS) in Ottersberg, Germany (2016). In 2015 he won the honorable mention award at the 17th altonale Art Festival in Hamburg. 2019 was selected as a guest artist for the program "Stadtlabor" at the Performing Arts Festival Berlin. In 2021 he was nominated for the art prize of the Atelierkate Lesun in Bremen and invited to the solo exhibition for emerging artists at the Affordable Art Fair Hamburg. His work has been exhibited in national and international art festivals, galleries and fairs since 2008.

LINKS

Arnaldo Gonzalez website & Instagram

Carmen Cristina Ferreyra Gómez by Caryana Castillo

Caryana Castillo's poem and artworks presented here celebrate her grandmother Carmen Cristina Ferrera Gómez. I had the chance to meet Caryana during the EnTransito Art Festival taking place at Sant Antoni de Portmany in Ibiza; see her work on Instagram 

Carmen Cristina Ferryra Gómez by Caryana Castillo.

 EL FLAMBOYÁN (ÁRBOL DE FUEGO)

Sensual antorcha que calienta y brilla
de violencia llanuras y montañas;
fuente de sangre, airón de maravilla,
cuaja ardor de verano en tus entrañas.

La flor de fuego en tu corona humilla
la luz caribe en que tu copa bañas,
y el paisaje antillano se arrodilla
a tu lumbre, hecho de miel, entre las cañas.

De tu destello en el rubí prendidos
púrpura en llama el horizonte hiende
cristales tintos en insolaciones.

Y entre el cielo y la tierra sorprendidos
en la enramada tropical se enciende
la rebelión de esclavos corazones.

José Agustín Balseiro

 

Corazón en flamas
Me ha encontrado una palabra, se aferra regia y con garra de mi pecho, combate mi ferocidad, no puedo resistir su influjo, se prende a mi corazón.

Invade todos mis sentidos, embriaga fuerza y voluntad, extingue mi rencor, no quiero resistirme a su influencia, es suyo mi corazón.

¿Cómo puedo expresar este mensaje glorioso en el instante de la ebullición? Borboteo repentino recorriendo los anillos cartilaginosos, abriéndose paso hasta los bronquios principales y sus ramificaciones, alvéolos floridos. Desde la Carina traqueal hasta las pupilas, volcán de lágrimas en erupción.

Rojo, sangre, carmesí, tomate, fresa, frambuesa, manzana, cereza, óxido, vino. Naranja, calabaza, mandarina, melón, amarillo, cadmín, canario, carambola, ocre, dorado, ámbar, ron. Fucsia, rosa, magenta, sandía, cajuilito, cuarzo, ponche, atardecer, sol, llama, flama, flamboyán.

Follaje denso y muy extendido. Flores grandes con cuatro pétalos iguales y un quinto que sobresale como un penacho de ave manchado de blanco y amarillo, luminosas gigantes rojas en la Tierra.

Colocados los colosos de 8 metros de elevación, flamboyanes, uno al lado del otro, en gran número, frente a un espejo incorpóreo que refleja sus pares formando un túnel incandescente. Soy un glóbulo rojo transportado en el caudal de la vena, deseando llegar al corazón. El corazón es una mujer rechoncha y blanda que me abraza y me besa, que huele a talco y a chinola, que se ríe a carcajadas de las palabras inocentes, que cuida de los animales y protege a los niños, una mujer que cose y teje y que guarda dos latas de galletas de mantequilla, una para los hilos y otra para los hijos.

Allí, donde empezó mi vida antes de que yo naciera, es el lugar a donde me han conducido los flamboyanes: Concepción de La Vega, la mina de oro más rica del Caribe, para mí, símbolo de mi feliz infancia.

He aquí el amor, cayendo como lluvia permanente de pétalos escarlata, como rayitos de luz que se cuelan por los pequeños huecos entre los folíolos primarios y secundarios de las largas hojas del Árbol del Fuego. Cálida oscuridad de ojos cerrados al fulgor del verano. Caricia sincera del sol en la mejilla. Dispongo de tranquilidad para jugar con las partículas de polvo encendidas, chispas que giran y se apagan. Maravillada con cada gota roja que suave se posa ora en mi pelo, ora en mis manos.

Descanso. “…El amor a la naturaleza no da trabajo a las fábricas… Las flores y los paisajes tienen un grave defecto: son gratuitos.”*

En consecuencia, recibo la bendición de mis ancestros, así como de mis familiares del hoy, para pintar, con plena confianza, una flor de pasión y sangre que brota del Santo Cerro, donde venció la traición.

—¡Oh amor mío! ¡Qué maravillosamente hermoso es estar vivos! Con el alma de tu cuerpo, con tu latido…

*Sobre la obra: «Corazón en flamas», año de realización: 2020, serie: “Patrimonio Natural”, tinta sobre papel, 42 cm x 27,9 cm, por Caryana Castillo Referencias y fuentes de inspiración: “Un mundo feliz” – Aldo Huxley. “Quién fuera” “Corazón en fuga” – Silvio Rodríguez . “Sin tu latido” – Luis Eduardo Aute.

 

THE FLAMBOYÁN (FIRE TREE)

 

Sensual torch that warms and shines

of violence plains and mountains;

fountain of blood, air of wonder,

heat of summer curdles in your bowels.

 

The flower of fire in your crown humiliates

the Caribbean light in which your glass bathes,

and the Antillean landscape kneels

to your fire, made of honey, among the reeds.

 

Of your sparkle in the ruby ​​lit

purple in flame, the horizon cleaves

tinted crystals in insolations.

 

And between Heaven and Earth, surprised

in the tropical bower lights up

the rebellion of slave hearts.

 

José Augustin Balseiro

 

heart on fire

A word has found me; it clings royally, and with a claw to my chest, it fights my ferocity. I cannot resist its influence; it clings to my heart.

It invades all my senses, intoxicates strength and will, extinguishes my rancor; I don't want to resist its influence, my heart is yours.

 

How can I express this glorious message at the moment of boiling? Sudden gurgling through the cartilaginous rings, making its way to the main bronchi and their ramifications, flowery alveoli. From the tracheal carina to the pupils, a volcano of tears in eruption.

 

Red, blood, crimson, tomato, strawberry, raspberry, apple, cherry, rust, wine. Orange, pumpkin, tangerine, melon, yellow, carmine, canary, carambola, ochre, gold, amber, rum. Fuchsia, pink, magenta, watermelon, cajuilito, quartz, punch, sunset, sun, flame, flame, flamboyant.

Foliage dense and widely spread. Large flowers with four equal petals and a fifth protruding like a bird's plume spotted with white and yellow, luminous red giants on Earth.

 

Placed the 8-meter-high flamboyant colossi, one next to the other, in large numbers, in front of a disembodied mirror that reflects their peers, forming an incandescent tunnel. I am a red blood cell transported in the flow of the vein, wanting to reach the heart. The heart is a plump and soft woman who hugs me and kisses me, who smells of talcum powder and chinola, who laughs out loud at innocent words, who cares for animals and protects children, a woman who sews and knits and who keeps two cans of butter cookies, one for the children and one for the children.

 

There, where my life began before I was born, is the place where the flamboyants have led me: Concepción de La Vega, the richest gold mine in the Caribbean, for me, a symbol of my happy childhood.

 

Here is love, falling like a permanent rain of scarlet petals, like little rays of light that slip through the small gaps between the primary and secondary leaflets of the long leaves of the Tree of Fire. Warm darkness with eyes closed to the glare of summer. Sincere caress of the sun on the cheek. I have peace of mind to play with the ignited dust particles, sparks that turn and go out. Amazed by each red drop that softly settles now on my hair, now on my hands.

 

Rest. "…The love of nature does not give work to factories… Flowers and landscapes have a serious defect: they are free."*

 

Consequently, I receive the blessing of my ancestors, as well as my relatives today, to paint, with full confidence, a flower of passion and blood that sprouts from the Holy Hill, where treason was defeated.

 

"Oh, my love!" How wonderfully beautiful it is to be alive! With the soul of your body, with your heartbeat...

 

*About the work: "Corazón en flamas," year of completion: 2020, series: "Natural Heritage," ink on paper, 42 cm x 27.9 cm, by Caryana Castillo References and sources of inspiration: "A happy world" –Aldo Huxley. "Who was" "Heart on the Run" – Silvio Rodríguez. "Without your heartbeat" - Luis Eduardo Aute.

Caryana's portraits of her family and her grandmother.

              

 

 

 

Ida was, indeed, my favorite grandmother, by Wendy Wasdahl.

Last night, trying to thread a needle to sew a button back on a shirt, memories of my grandmother came flooding in. As a child, if I wasn't brushing her long, white hair, I was also engaged in helping her thread needles for her sewing projects, as seeing small detail close-up was a challenge to her older eyes. I can relate to that now. 

She was my only grandmother and, actually, she was my step-grandmother. My family history is too complicated to go into now, except for the fact that I am the only child of an only child who was a single working mother. We lived in San Francisco, but as my mother needed childcare help when I had long breaks from school, I spent much of my summer school vacation with my grandparents in Los Angeles. When I came to stay with them, my grandmother, who I called Mommo, would bake and have it ready for my arrival, my favorite cookies. They were very thick, round, heavy cookies of flour, butter, and sugar. Her cookie cutter was the top rim of a drinking glass. They were very plain but sprinkled on top with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. I loved them. They were much like my grandmother herself, who was also stocky, plain, gruff, and from the "old country." But like the mixture of cinnamon and sugar, her fierce love for me had the toughness of spice and the sweetness of sugar. I loved her. She was, indeed, my favorite grandmother.

Despite all Odds. SHATTERED: SYMBOLIC GESTURE.

Artists in Solidarity with Ukraine

One year since the start of Russia's unprovoked, illegal aggression against Ukraine, we're acknowledging the resilience of the Ukrainian people and the solidarity shown by Romania and the rest of the peace-loving world through a project that demonstrates the power of visual art and the spoken word to denounce the ordeals and preserve the memory of these tragic times. Presented in partnership with the Ukrainian Institute of America (UIA), "SHATTERED: SYMBOLIC GESTURE" is a large-scale international collaboration that consists of a multimedia exhibition conceived by the Romanian-Canadian visual artist and polymath Oana Maria Cajal, accompanied by a series of video-poems and poetry readings offered by U.S.-based Romanian and Ukrainian poets.

The event took place at the Romanian Cultural Institute in the presence of artist Oana Maria Cajal along with readings of poetry written in reaction to the war in Ukraine offered by Adina Dabija, Olena Jennings, Mihaela Moscaliuc, Claudia Serea, Adela Sinclair, Vera Sirota, and an opening remarks by Kathy Nalywajko, the President of the Ukrainian Institute of America.

The multimedia exhibition included 24 collages – "picto-impulses" by Oana Maria Cajal and a video  made by Ștefan Cajal with music by American composer and pianist Michael Roth.

The following poem by Vera Sirota honors the strength of a woman in dire circumstances.

    

Despite All Odds

by Vera Sirota

When the air raid siren blares 

I remain

defiant

in my bed

on the top floor of my home.

I dare a Moscow missile to find me.

 

I am 99 years old.

I survived the Nazi invasion.

I survived Stalin’s terror.

I survived Soviet oppressors.

I will survive Putin’s pillagers.

 

Hope animates my heart

because this is a national trait –

a pride that propels us

a song that sustains us.

 

We bow to no one

and never will.

Vera Sirota reading her poem at the exhibition, Shattered: Symbolic Gesture, hosted by The Romanian Cultural Institute.

Oana Maria Cajal's Babusya inspired Vera to read Despite all Odds at the event.

 

Ukrainian American Poets Respond anthology edited by 

Olena Jennings and Virlana Tkacz (2022).

 

SHATTERED: SYMBOLIC GESTURE edited by Claudia Serea (forthcoming fall 2023).

 

Vera Sirota is the proud granddaughter of Ukrainian immigrants. 

Vera serves as a mentor for Girls Write Now, a creative writing organization for high school girls and gender-expansive youth in NYC. Vera’s poems have been featured or are forthcoming in the Armstrong Literary, Dark Onus Lit, Music of Hope: a benefit concert in support of Ukraine, Poetry Distillery, SHATTERED: SYMBOLIC GESTURE, exhibition, Stories by Girls Write Now, and Ukrainian American Poets Respond. 

Vera is a 2022 Martha Award Finalist for the David Wade Hogue Scholarship. She is a co-founder of the West of Willow poetry and music collective in Hoboken.