Mariola & Hanna
Mariola’s Birthday Party:
So I was visiting Mariola – it was my first time there. That was a sentimental journey –
I myself lived in this district many years ago now, with my son. I took Mariola three yellow roses and my painting of some wildflowers that had faded. No longer sure if it was from age.
I painted it before I left for America. It had been hanging at my half-sister’s. When she died, I got it back. It’s not much to speak of. Flowers on a gray background. I wanted to paint over it. Eventually I just painted some red dots on it – buds, maybe. But when I went to see Mariola, I only gave her the roses.
I saw at once that my picture did not fit in with her traditional apartment. I left the bag with the picture in the hall. There were no mirrors on the wall, nor a wardrobe. An ironing board was stuck in the middle.
Crossing over to the room took a bit of maneuvering. Everything was laid-back – all her things are unfinished. Everything happens all at once, and she sees no other way. A few people were there, cake was served. Mariola’s son was minding his own business in his room with a friend. He knows my son; they were scouts together as children. Sometimes they meet up while doing odd jobsHer apartment is laid out just like one I had years ago – and her son’s room…
Except my apartment was in a state of being created – it was unfinished. I made some shapes with Plasticine. I put them on a shelf and they began to be household items. Only at Mariola’s house did I realize how small that apartment had been. Back then it had seemed big to me.I sprang out of there like a cork from a bottle, it was so pumped full of energy.
Everyone spoke loudly. One lady was really glad to see me; she recognized me as an old neighbor. I didn’t remember her. She said we had made a trip to the Benedictine monastery together – I couldn’t recall it.
Oh yes, and the picture in the foyer. I said goodbye to Mariola, and the picture with the wildflowers was hanging there. Mariola spoke of how her father once called on her birthday.
(The same man who once looked at her and said: Even Shakespeare couldn’t have dreamt up such a tragedy)
So he called with birthday greetings; he wished her a bouquet of wildflowers.Now this picture reminded her of her father’s phone call. I pulled my picture with the flowers from my shopping bag: I also have a bouquet of wildflowers for you. She smiled and asked if she could keep the bag as well.