I have lived in a number of American cities in a variety of circumstances. I have lived in villages and towns in Bulgaria and the Netherlands and sojourned in other lands. I observe. I ask the nature to become part of me. I gather the occasional circumstance or a particular moment to wonder about. I am an outsider transplanted. I want that world to tangibly relate to what I can understand. I want to know what makes the people tick. Who are they? How are they different? How are they similar? How does culture play a role in what we perceive as "outside" or "inside"? How are we kept apart from each other and "being human"? Deep inside, aren't we really the same?
As the second of three daughters of immigrant parents, I have been fortunate to have been raised in a family with threads of old country values and nostalgia blending with the American environment and energy to result in a unique weave. Surrounded by objects from the past, our home was a mosaic painted by woven patterned carpets, colorful Bulgarian pottery and embroideries from Europe. We grew up on stories and memories of faraway places and times, living in double realities. We dreamed of Austrian Alps and suffered family separations due to the Bulgarian communist regime.
When I lived in Bulgaria for nearly two years on the Fulbright Grant in 1996, I began to learn the language for the first time, faced old ghosts and began to collect my own encounters of people, the nature and the daily life. I pickled and canned food, searched for wild mushrooms and herbs, made soap, sang songs, drew in monasteries and churches, listened to whispering tales, crocheted with wrinkled babas and mingled with shepherds on the fields. I watched and incessantly gathered. Now, in Holland, I am not partaking in fish dinners on the Danube or going on wild boar hunts, but I am gathering the light, the sky, and trying to find my connections.
I keep going back to the Bulgarian villages. Ours was a posh one by Bulgarian standards and certainly, there was a dynamic array of personalities including the very new rich folks, the "peasants", the old babas, the shepherds, the village drunks, the bigshots, the honest and corrupt and those extremely caring and giving. Sometimes you think, well this is quite extreme! Such a small place! And as much as you begin to grasp the underpinnings, the forest is thick and the path obscured. The layering is too dense.
After some time, I realize that life in the village is really like any other place I have lived. Sure, no shepherds or goats in the backyard but the intrigue, the wants and desires, the fears and sentiments are everywhere. Nature will be a backdrop or completely present and infused in the rhythm of a day. Moving from one place to another, is it so disparate?
A walk along one New York city street will house a world of surprises and dramas, just as wandering along a stony path in the back of the village and happening upon an old baba taking her goat for a walk and telling you her life story. Both experiences are valid, will open your eyes and will make you look at life inside and outside of yourself. You just have to notice.
The primary intention of this blog is to share some stories, anecdotes and oddities which, of course, are part of "me" but also emerge in my own creative work.
I am reminded of the way my mother speaks to me. I know my mother through her stories. Yes, she gave advices, but usually, her way of communication was to tell a story from her childhood in Austria, living through the war, the townspeople, the mountains, coming to America and the life around us. The answer was there and it was up to me to understand. Sometimes I thought she couldn't answer my questions with a deep discussion because of her English, but now I realize that it wasn't the language but rather how she relates and shares. It is her way of painting. And it is rich and deep.
And so, in this same spirit, I put up my paintings and drawings to the viewer!
Check out my Picasa Web Album of images!
And my blog site, Nadine Zanow
