In "Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors" Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan say a lot of very interesting things about living beings from time immemorial. For instance: "...At times of rising group tension, male chimps may touch or heft each other's testicles, as the ancient Hebrews and Romans are said to have done upon concluding a treaty, or testifying before a tribunal. Indeed the root of "testify" and "testimony" is the Latin word, testis...
...".
Another, statement caught my eyes: "...Mothers know who their sons are...
But fathers are not sure who their daughters are, and vice versa...".
I wonder. What do these statements have to do with these images? Am I really losing the pro-verbial "it"? With my early morning coffee these thoughts seemed full of truth in connection with what I'm working with.
But it is. It's a testimony of sorts, a visual one, of our extended Family's curious (?) creative tendencies. Hefting my balls I make peace with my self. My Mother must've known that her boy would do something like this. And my Father's daughter, my Sister? Her testimony is verbal; a Mother her own self, She somehow decided and took it upon Herself to WRITE the Story of our Family.
For Her and me, it began in war torn, destroyed Germany. Our first bathing, as infants, was in this big aluminum bowl with the Swastika stamped on the bottom. Together with the ancient
suitcase, these are the only relics which remain from that distant time. With us, these two came over the Ocean in the last millenium. On a ship named "Maria Jumper". For some reason, I have both. The inside diameter of the bowl is 13 3/4 inches. Outside diameter: 15 3/4 inches. Don't ask me how deep it is. Too deep. Can get lost in it.

THE SUITCASE

Scrolling down through these pages you'll come to a watercolor. Painted June 18th, 1945. A man with a small bundle tied to a stick over his shoulder. Sweat driping. Wrecked old car at a mile-marker.
Many people've walked this walk.
Different reasons. June '45 was a month after the end of WW II? Families broken up. Scattered all over Europe. Without transportation trying to find each other guided by rumors? Hope.

His first name - Mychajlo. Last name later changed from thirteen letters to eleven. Now I wonder: why bother? A two letter difference. "t" and "s" now gone. The American tongue changed first name to Mike. A certain laziness. A disrespect almost.

But only some refuse to accept the new language of the new country. Now, more than back then. In 1949 people learned. We went to school without even one word of English in our empty pockets.

Our Mother's Mother. Or, I should say our Grandmother. This is the extended Family, and sadly I only know about the Parents of my parents. The photographic records of my brother-in-law's families are unknown to me.
This is the only existing (?) sample of our Grandma's creations. She was an opera singer, pianist, a medical doctor, and upon coming to the New World, a lot of things she shouldn't have been. A babysitter, teacher of French, cleaning lady...

Our
Grand-
ma's
Brother.


















Our Mother. From childhood she was blind in one eye. I don't remember Her doing any needlework, but these two images of horses are Her work from when she was at the University.

Our Dad. He was the Artist of the family from the very beginning. He was fearless and tried everything, including encaustics, which is a technique of painting with hot wax that has been infused with color.

We were quite young, kids, really, when in a freak accident He had both his legs broken. We kids were there and saw this happen; He was behind our old old car seeing how the turn signals work when He was hit by another car from behind. All this happened at the Fair Grounds, where people went to learn how to drive on the acres of parking lot.

At any rate, he was conscious when they took Him to the hospital, and the doctor told Him: "Mike, with a snip of the scissors I'll just have to cut your feet off". His legs were that busted (above the ankles), just hanging from strips of skin. So, the Old Man told the doctor "No. You're a doctor and you have to fix them". They went back and forth like this, because the doctor knew what it meant to fix bones THAT shattered, but in the end he gave in. He said "O.K., Mike. I'll do the best I can do. But in all likelihood, you'll never walk again.", to which our Dad responded "You fix 'em and leave the walking to me". And proceeded to draw these cartoons of his experience in the operating room and later the recovery rooms. There must have been a lot more of these... Took Him five years, but He did walk. All the different stages in between... I remember Him laying in bed with both legs in casts up to His hips, on His stomach, painting icons on doors that were on the floor slid under the bed. He'd slide them back and forth as needed to paint... Wheelchair....... Crutches.... Always with a cane, later.

He gave us this gift. Of showing, by example, of what can be done...

This gets a little bit confusing for me: family trees. All of the images up to this point were from my original family. One tree. Now, is this a branch on our tree? No. This is a distinct, different tree. So what happens when a member of one tree joins another tree in marriage? Seems like that's a branch, but on which tree? At any rate, I believe this is an embroidery by the Grandmother of the next tree.
Quite possibly done in the "old country". Ukraine. No, not possibly. Probably. Definitely. I'm sure She never made it to "the new world".



This next one is Her Daughter, the Mother of the Son who by marriage created this new branch.
All the women embroidered, on top of all the other things women do. This urge to make something more beautiful than it is. Clothes. Pillows. Curtains. Everything. I, as a young boy, having three sisters, all of whom embroidered, learned how to embroider the most basic stitch. It's hard work. A lot of concentration. Never got to the point where I could do something as complex as these examples.... This particular embroidery is, I believe, with a sad ending. The woman who was working on it, felt this was the end, and sticking the needle into the material so it wouldn't get lost, died. It's still like that. Nobody had the desire to change it.
It could be that I'm mistaken, and it was with the embroidery before this one that ended like this.




































This is work done by the Son of the new branch, the Father and Husband. A Ukrainian national instrument called a Bandura. Amazing! The man decided to make this, and went ahead and did it. I'm certain he'd had no experience making musical instruments. Thirty strings. Hollow body with a curved back, the wood for which had to be soaked and formed separately. A man who'd worked in coal mines in post-war Belgium. Was in Canada a farmer, contractor. Went to school and became an engineer. And decided to make a Bandura...











This is my oldest Sister. The tree jumper. Always worried that she had no artistic talent.....






















































































I don't know. Seems to me like some pretty wonderful work. She'd probably sewed the blouse first, and then proceeded to embroider it. Just a certain humbleness, a certain knowing that it ain't no big thing. It needed to be done and it was. I know there was a pride that went along with it also, but a humbleness... A carrying on of a tradition from who knows how far back? It's a River, this creativity thing, and you get your feet wet in it and it just goes from there. Connects you with things you'd never dreamed of. Some of it conscious. Some not. You see someone doing something, and you go "I can do that". And, of course, you can. Has nothing whatsoever to do with being able to draw a straight line. That's bullshit anyway. Anybody can draw a straight line. That's what straight-edges are for...












































































































Amazing...