#i tried to draw the study group + radio making scene without a reference in class... always use a reference kids dont be stubborn like me

[random-lil-illing]

so, i have a new movie/fictional guy to obsess over - in my defense, my friend dragged me into this fandom

[rayj-drash]

Berlin Sketches pt 1

by T. Frank

My grandmother cannot fathom entering Germany. She was a child of the Great Depression and lived through the war safely from the Catskill Mountains of New York while her husband fixed radios on home turf. However, Germany represents a taboo in history for my grandparents as Jews. They would no sooner visit the Brandenberg Gate than they would try scuba diving without an oxygen tank.

 I constantly reflect on the trusted feeling of Home since I lived in Berlin for six weeks in fall of 2018. Previously, the longest trip I took was a ten-day tour of Israel through the organization Birthright: from the peak of a mountain overlooking three desert countries, to the crowded rush of the Jerusalem shuk, and my aversion to a display of American-Israeli nationalism on a military campus. The scenes and feelings form a whirlwind of hazy memories, much like any experience on new land. 

A few days after I arrived back in the Bay Area, I sat in Strawberry Creek Park watching the sun go down and the light blue sky grow faint as night approached, seeking those moments of "awe" that came so suddenly in Berlin. This bright green park reminded me of the open recreational space I loved over there, even though the grass was literally greener on this side of the pond!  I distinctly remember the moment when I scarcely had to look up at the street signs and felt like whichever path I took, I would find my way. Nevertheless, five months ago, I had sent in an application for an unusual art residency, an immersion into the study of grief. I reflected on those periods of my life that had led to some of my deepest creations. Drawings of cancer cells and lungs, struggles to breathe and heal in the midst of choking emotion, flowers and vines winding through the dark themes. I yearned to express my observations of the world through whatever moved me, again.

~~~~~

The journey to Berlin was a three-legged trip with two layovers, leaving Friday evening and arriving at 10:00PM on Saturday. A huge, crowded economy flight, cheap and minimal. I tried to rest as the crew turned off all lights on board. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed like the sun was creeping over the horizon, and we touched down to a windy, barren tarmac. It was 9:00AM, as all the passengers disembarked in Reykjavik, Iceland, we felt the chill burrowing through our thin layers and shivered.

On the second leg, as the plane glided to the lowlands, I appreciated the bucolic farmland. I was alone in the Copenhagen airport. The crowds in Reykjavik were more diverse, like a burgeoning metropolis.  By contrast, everyone arriving in this Danish terminal looked alike: tall, blond, and, permit me, Aryan. They traveled in clusters of family groups, chatting, gesturing, smiling. I dragged my suitcase past designer boutiques to a desolate, unfinished terminal, where passengers awaited their flights without customary notice; but learned to say, Takk, Danish for "Thank you". When I finally reached Germany, I connected to the U-bahn, the underground subway. The ride was over an hour long, and I gazed at the subterranean signage, lost once more. Until I arrived at Rathaus Neukölln, and my new roommate Shimon met me outside in the rain.

The next day, I left the mattress that our hostess Amelia had set up on the floor, staggering about with jet lag. Luckily there's oatmeal, my favorite companion. Shimon and his friend Devorah from Tel Aviv are home. We discuss the neighborhood. ‘What if I get terribly lost, not only physically, but mentally, too?’ I thought. ‘Is this a dream? Why am I so far from anyplace I know?’ Devorah suggested a walk to the canal, with a Sunday flea market. Late afternoon, I ventured outdoors and discovered a slice of paradise.

At the end of the block, a large mosaic mural adorned a staircase which I took to have the impression of a rooftop. A large concrete lot surrounded a beautiful community garden. Raised flower beds were home to a bounty of colorful flowers, tall green vegetables grew under the sunshine and painted poles flanked handmade structures. I spotted a concrete ping-pong table, and mustered up the courage to join two men playing. One of them wore a baseball cap with "Cal" emblazoned in blue and yellow; by chance, he attended law school at UC Berkeley, and lived several blocks away from me! After a few rounds of ping-pong, the Germans drank beer and suggested that I check out a nearby landmark before sunset.

Cheered, I walked along and found an "I Love SF" sweatshirt at a pop-up flea market. More surprises awaited. I heard music, and pushed aside brambles to emerge in Hasenheide Park, where a large circle of guitarists and drummers jammed for casual onlookers. I saw an ornate mosque with blue and gold trim, a wide courtyard, and an outdoor faucet for washing hands or drinking cool, crisp water. Next door was Tempelhof Field. A former airport utilized during World War Two to fly-in supplies from the West, the unused tarmac was reinvented as an open recreational wonderland. I entered the gates and was met with flocks of activity: bicyclists, joggers, even a pair doing synchronized roller-skating. Dry, dull grass covered the fields, but a victory garden shined under the setting sun, and the barista of an on-site cafe recommended finding a good perch. 

I joined two boys from Afghanistan, Hasan and Muhamed, watching the sky from tall ladder-seats. Muhamed and I grinned, struggling to hold a conversation between the lack of a common language. Google helped, but broken English got us farther. "Do you know there are still American police in my country?,” he exclaimed. My conscience bristling, I say that most people do not speak of the Afghan-American war anymore. The sun set in deep purple and vivid pink hues. Hasan saw my eyes light up at the sight of his bicycle, and offered me a ride--so, I sat sideways on the frame, clutching his black leather jacket, and answering "Ya" when asked, "Alles Gut?"until I grimaced from discomfort and Hasan laughed--"Kaput!" The two friends saw me off at a bus stop, and I stumbled on board as the passengers stared.

~~~~~

The following Monday, I walked twenty minutes from the apartment to arrive in front of a white-painted gallery, and no one around. Feeling nervous that the entire program was a hoax (just like my parents thought when they read the acceptance letter from the dubious-sounding organization),  I noticed a middle-aged man at a computer in the corner. I knocked on the window, and he let me inside. Here was a room devoid of decoration, save for a long rectangular table and six chairs, three of which were filled by women. Soon, another man entered the room and offered tea, introducing himself as our "mentor". We never referred to him by any name other than his own, even when I suggested “Alek”. He's over six feet tall, shaved head, and wore all black from his long-sleeved turtleneck to his sturdy dress shoes.

The participants introduced themselves. Sarah researched environmental grief, such as the devastation left behind from man-made disasters. Gwen studied grief theories in graduate school. Jasmine hoped to connect to refugees of war. And Sara--no error, there are two--prepared to make an installation honoring a departed friend. Linda would join us the following afternoon and plunge into an exploration of feeling othered through found objects. After we went over studio policies, we shared a bit on why we study grief, bringing several girls to tears. It felt like a group therapy session--and it wouldn't be the last. 

~~~~~

Dear Talya, Gone to synagogue. It's a short walk from the canal. I forget the street name-'Pflug'-something. Come join me for Yom Kippur services. Love, Devorah. Without consulting a map, I asked for directions from three different shopkeepers to find the synagogue. Luckily, they understood English and didn’t express unsavory reactions to my Jewish-ness. Once I found the path parallel to the Canal, the temple came into view: a large building curving around a tranquil block, with stained glass windows and a grand façade. Security officers were stationed outside, and I was screened before entering. "Are you Jewish?" they ask.. "Yes." Unmoved, they question, "Do you pray?" 

In August, I went to Washington, DC for my cousin’s wedding. Her family and friends are modern orthodox, or, religious. The day before the wedding, we were in shul for Shabbat services. During the long morning prayers, I read the English version of the Torah portion. The text alluded to the treatment of rape by virtue of marriage or the punishment of execution. By coincidence, this was the same chapter I studied for my Bat Mitzvah twelve years ago, but I must have been too young to grasp such explicit content. I left the room and spent the rest of services out in the hallway, tending to the potted plants as a distraction. 

Did I pray? Not willfully on that day in the synagogue. Internally, yes, throughout my life: the inner dialogue between my spirit and the spirit of a G-d. But in practice, only with family over Shabbat blessings. So I answered, "No. But my Israeli friend is in there, can I go in?" 

Yom Kippur services were surprisingly welcoming in Germany. Although the congregation was divided amongst the men and women, the dress code was more relaxed (jeans, white t-shirts), and several of the men held babies on their shoulders as the rabbi sang in Hebrew. I found Devorah and stood beside her. I recognized the somber prayer, "Avinu Malkeinu", and it felt no different than my family's congregation. The prayer books here were German on one side, and Hebrew on the other.

 After the ceremony, we passed by plenty of people enjoying the balmy weather at dusk. Devorah was reminded of holidays in her country, riding her bike freely while everyone took time off to relax. Shimon met us to break the fast with noodle phơ. I was lucky to connect with "my people", thousands of miles away from home. As a child, I remember feeling like my relatives’ religious differences divided us. However, my cultural upbringing is something I've retained and appreciate. Joining Israelis in Germany for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was akin to sharing a secret amongst friends.

~~~~~

  As the weeks went by, I developed a habit of visiting the community garden, mornings before heading to the studio and nights on my way home. One weekend, I felt antsy as I read a book called The Truth Will Set You Free by Alice Miller. There was a campfire at the garden as they observed summer changing to chilly Autumn. I surveyed the party scene before resting into a corner of a homemade wooden bench under the dim glow from industrial lights around the lot.  Although the setting was not condusive to reading, I was shy to join the group. But, when I repositioned myself next to the fire, it was apparent that these young, hip, multinational guests preferred to speak in English. Rosa asked what I’m doing in Berlin. When I told her I’m studying grief, her voice got excited and she invited her friends into the conversation.

Annika was vivacious and full of life. I noticed her wisps of fuzzy blonde hair, bright in the glow of the fire. She was working on a memoir, and was also the subject of a photoshoot documenting her journey with cancer. As she spoke, I folded a paper crane and gave it to her, provoking a sense of delight. My idea for the residency then was to make a handmade book for participants to share their experiences of grief, and to make origami together. Annika agreed to be interviewed the following week.

~~~~~

I took the S-bahn, the above-ground trolley, several miles northwest where the buildings  are close to the city center. Annika told her story: how, at age 26, she discovered the cancer in her breast and rushed into several months of intensive treatment including antibody therapy, anti-hormone medicine, and chemotherapy. She ultimately received a double mastectomy and chose breast implants. For a month after surgery, Annika couldn't lift her arms over her head. It was painful, but her energy was focused on how to function normally again. Now, she was in recovery, undergoing radiation and daily physical therapy. She wholeheartedly embraced her body, and I felt a mixture of awe and love for her resilience and positive attitude.

I encouraged Annika to leave her mark in a communal scrapbook of stories. She drew a breast in pastel colors with words circling the nipple, such as "soft"-, "round"-, "hope"-, and "loss".- After I left the apartment, I boarded the train and closed my eyes. In the dark, I envisioned a bare, cream-colored orb, shiny and wet, like a peeled lychee fruit. Perhaps, I reasoned, this represented Annika's true self.

Back in the studio, I was at a loss to contribute during our group discussion. I almost broke down, overcome with emotions that arose from the interview. So I took a break from the sterile white walls, and sat under the chestnut tree in the courtyard. I picked up a spiny shell, cracked it open to reveal a creamy-brown belly. I wrote a meditation on the seed of the tree. I reflected on impermanence, on patience, on Annika taking her time to heal yet reveling in every healthy moment. I like taking my time.

"Hey Aleksander," I remarked in the midst of studio time, "Since the interview with Annika, I’ve been feeling down.” My mentor was sitting at a desk, drinking tea and writing in one of his many small notebooks. "Do you feel your own grief surface?," he replied. "No, more like I put myself in her shoes, and feel compassion." He advised, "Keep a journal--one just for yourself, your thoughts and daily experiences. And one for your work in the residency; write down everything you're thinking. It'll help, trust me."

----- Talia Frank lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She contributes to the Donut Club, an East Bay writer’s group. Visiting Berlin in 2018 inspired a love of community gardens and allowed her to re-examine Judiasm within a global context.

Reach the author: tfrank@cca.edu 

Visual art: www.cargocollective.com/taliafrank

Blog: https://wanderlustblumen.wordpress.com