The Birth of a Dream
The journey of making Invitation: The Quilt of Belonging began unexpectedly in the summer of 1994. At age 42, the course of my life as a mother, wife, daughter, pianist, volunteer, but especially as an artist, was radically changed by a single event -- travelling to Slovakia with my father. Until then I had been working alone as an artist in my own studio. Whether painting, drawing or playing the piano, I strove to communicate what I understood of the universe around me. But this trip refashioned my understanding of people, how I saw life, and even how I worked -- a new part of my heart opened up.
The Iron Curtain had fallen and my father was able to return to his homeland to reunite with his family after nearly half a century of separation. I was confident I knew my father well. Yet he had never told me about his family in Slovakia, not even about his brothers and sisters. The relatives I met were complete strangers to me. In a few short days, I acquired a family whose identity and language had been previously unknown to me. These individuals had lived completely differently lives from ours.
Uncle Milan, who lives in Slovakia, conserves the past. Raised in an orphanage during World War II, he returned as an adult to his father's village, Banská Belá, never to live elsewhere again. His father's bed still sits in the corner of the now uninhabited stary dom (old house), across from the ceramic stove that heats the tiny house that once sheltered an entire family and their farm animals as well. Surrounding the old house and Milan's newer house, where he lives with his wife and daughter, terraced gardens provide both food and beauty. Life under communism was harsh, money was scarce, and Milan's work in the mines, grueling. Theirs is an old life, without television or computers, which follows the rhythm of the seasons. Each Christmas, Milan, a renowned woodcarver, sets up an extensive, carved nativity scene in his home and visitors make an annual trek to see his "Bethlehem." Shaped by suffering, love, art and nature, all wrapped in a strong Christian faith, Milan's life is complete within this valley. He has no desire to leave. My father, Jan Gazdik, fled Slovakia at the end of WWII, the only member of his family to escape before communism took over. He has always sought new adventures, challenges, and lived his life in many countries. The first of six children, I was born in France, where he and my mother, an American, served as missionaries in the post-war years. His concerns as a pastor were for the present and the future. He taught our family that life was for reaching out, for helping others. Armed with his unshakeable faith, but few material resources, nothing was impossible. He embraced his new family, new home and new dreams. His past was distant a collection of painful memories better left undisturbed. He saw no value in wasting time or energy looking back when God had so much work for him to do each day.
When communism in Europe collapsed, Dad was ready to reclaim his history, and he embarked on a quest to revisit the past. I went with him. We tried to retrace every step of his former life. We looked for every dwelling he had occupied. Through fields, forests and mountains, villages and towns, we searched for the missing pieces. His joy was tinged with grief when he was reunited with surviving family members and saw the terrible scars left by years of oppression. The unspoken pain of his past resurfaced along with treasured memories of childhood. While some parts of his Slovakia were as beautiful as he remembered, others were in ruins. Suddenly, a long-suppressed part of my father emerged. He had a desperate longing to have those he loved share his past. He wanted us to understand how his past had shaped him, as if it were a key to loving and accepting him in the present. For the first time I saw how all the elements of our past, good and bad, need to be faced before we can step confidently into the future.
During the emotional rollercoaster of those days, every time I could steal time alone, I tramped up to a knoll my family affectionately nicknamed Esterkin kopec (Esther's hill). This solitary peak became my favourite place to think, for I could see the world unfolding around me in a full 360-degree panorama. The mining village of Banskn Behi is tucked into the valley below and around it the mountains rise like folds in a cloth, layer upon layer on every side, receding into the distance. I had so many questions to sort out. Why did I feel like part of me was coming home when Slovakia and these relatives had never been part of my life before? I had lived in many places, but most of my adult life was spent in Canada with my large, loving family. Why was my heart so engaged by this new land and these new family members? Would this have been my life if Dad had stayed behind? How can people so far apart in place and experience still be alike in so many ways? I wondered how to fit these two completely opposite worlds into my own life.
Everywhere we went, we hungrily gathered fragments of our lost past. I scribbled down family stories, sketched the village, the fields, the stary dom, collected photographs, stones, textiles, crafts, dishes anything I could bring back in suitcases, objects to hold onto when we were separated once more. Back in Canada, making art became my way of trying to make sense of all these scattered pieces. I incorporated the fragments into paintings, handmade books, textiles, photographs, and poetry. And as I worked over the next two years I asked more questions. What are the basic needs of human beings and what value does God place on each life? How do we all fit together? My artwork from this period was shown in a one-woman exhibition entitled Return. When it opened to the public, I was stunned by the response. Many wept or laughed and told me their own stories and struggles, sometimes bringing their treasured heirlooms for me to see and touch. Often they concluded with a phrase I couldn't forget: "You're so lucky you're an artist, you can talk about it." I saw the need of each person to be included, to be seen and to be heard.
Although I've been an artist all my life, I had struggled with the direction my work should take. Why make art? Who is it for? The current Western art scene so often deifies the artist and treats art as a commodity. Artists enter a cycle of building a reputation and selling art to allow them to make more art, to sell more art. So much work for so little gain. The needs expressed by the viewers at my exhibition Return led me in a new direction. What of making art, not for money, not for one person, not limited by one mind, one personality, one version of beauty, one reality, one past? I felt compelled to make art that would include all who needed to belong, artist or nor. All my life, I had struggled to answer the question of where I belonged, and I realized that this was a fundamental human need. Children and adults alike crave acceptance at home, at school, at work, in communities, and in houses of worship. Every person needs to know that regardless of color, gender, age, abilities, physical attributes or temperament, his or her life is an equally valued part of the tapestry of life. This then would be the invitation. All would be invited to participate, to belong. Invitation: The Quilt of Belonging was born!
