Tuesday, December 17, 2024

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. 



Tuesday, October 22, 2024

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.










Friday, June 14, 2024

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).