On death, survival, and writing
When you are a young woman that has a tendency to contemplate, the idea of death is likely to inhabit your mind frequently. I can remember vividly when it was the first time it came to me. I was seven years old. My mother used to take me to art classes on Saturdays. I loved these days because she’d always buy me a juice box and a chocolate bar on our way there. Plus, she’d hold my hand all the way to the art studio.
The studio, which was like my second home, was held by Eva, an unusual Hungarian woman with great warmth and kindness. The studio was in the basement, it had white walls and white tiles, always a bit cold, crowded with artwork of former and existing students.
Every time I would descend down the stairs, I’d feel like I’m entering a formal ceremony that required my best behavior. There was some voyeuristic pleasure involved because I was surrounded by inner worlds of people I didn’t know - various paintings and sketches. Someone else’s perspective was so wonderfully and clearly laid in front of my eyes. I felt honored to be trusted and I was impressed with their courage, although I never said anything. Maybe they didn’t think their art was anything personal? It’s possible that it wasn’t a big deal for them.
I, on the other hand, would always take my work home, rolling the paper in a rush, trying to protect it from sight. If the canvas was too big and had to stay in the studio, I would feel very anxious until next week. At the time, I carried the belief that each and every one of us keeps their inner worlds a secret and lets others see the glimpse of them by using art as a filter or simply by breaking silence.
Each time I would sit down facing the blank canvas, I would feel at peace. It was about the reassurance of nothingness that encouraged me to explore what I can create. I can be whoever I want to be. There is a shield around me and I am protected.
One day, we had an assignment to use ink and quill and draw still life presented in front of us. It was a magnificent skull of a chamois and by fate or coincidence, I was sitting right in front of it. I could see it perfectly, en face. I was fascinated and grateful I got this seat. I was facing it, eye to eye, looking at something that was once alive and now just hollow, empty, and uncanny.
This encounter triggered my first thought about death and I believe it never left me since. It continued to change its form and manifest itself differently as I grew older, kind of like a shapeshifter. In its essence, it remained unsolvable and omnipresent.
My quill was turquoise and semi-transparent, with frozen bubbles inside. It was still and frozen, yet resembled life - just like the chamois in front of my eyes. As I began to draw the skull, I felt like I’m chasing something that’s impossible to catch. It was very hard for me to concentrate because I kept stacking layers of meat onto the dead, white bony structure. I could see a living head in my mind and was terrified to say anything to my mom about it. The class had three weeks to finish the piece and I knew this would be my best work ever.
The skull was polished, elongated, with small traces of scarring and damage, and magnificent horns that were slightly curled, but mostly pointy. The horns were of a much darker shade, clearly of different density, covered in textured horizontal lines. When Eva brought us the skull the first day, she invited us to carefully touch it if we wanted to. Some of the kids ran to it and were thrilled to touch the horns and nostrils, or they would laugh by putting their fingers through eye sockets. I froze and remained in my seat.
On the last day, when all of the kids went home, Eva asked my mom for a word. I was left alone in the room, avoiding to look at the skull. I trembled for a moment, my heart started pounding harder. I elevated my hand and gently, just by using my index finger and my thumb, stroked the lines of the right horn. I felt a pleasant sensation in my fingertips and thought about it for a long time. It was almost as if I didn’t touch death, but caressed it and made friends with it. It was forever imprinted in me.
In Serbian language, the word itself (“smrt”) doesn’t have any vowels. It’s heavy, almost tangible, like it’s made of lead. The word perfectly reflects the notion it conceives: it is a prison, it lets no air out because it has no vowels that would serve as windows and let the word breathe. Yet for some, death is freedom.
If death didn’t exist, would mankind have enough incentive to resort to writing?