Fuck art, let’s dance
I wish I could find it, share it here. Maybe I’ll add it later, once I do find it, because I know it’s here somewhere. She showed it to me not long ago, just held it up and smiled, and I did too, because I remembered it from years ago. A button. She would wear this little button only sometimes, fastened to her jacket or purse or hat, on some trip to the Marina, or Glendale, or Santa Monica. It was just an afterthought she occasionally pinned on to herself, but it always made her grin.
Fuck art, let’s dance, the button read.
That’s Mom. That’s the Mom I know and will carry with me. An artist, yes, but not so serious about it all, or especially about herself. In terms of her art, as these California years have stretched on, and especially when the cancers and other health problems came, she painted less. Poetry still flowed, and then came the photos, and the collages — she would find inspiration just in the most ordinary scenes of her beloved L.A., like people walking along the Promenade, or the levels and movement of a shopping mall. She would photograph these scenes with a camera she sometimes carried along as an afterthought also, just like her button. And if inspired, would uncap, snap, would maybe later play with the photo or leave it alone, would splice it together with cutouts of other photos, other drawings, other works.
Sometimes I think a photo would inspire a poem. In one case, I’m pretty sure a poem was inspired by a button.
One day we’ll all be dancing /
We’ll see it’s important to try /
After all — isn’t this LA? /
So let’s dance, let’s be hip and alive /
Let’s dance in sparkling dresses /
Let’s dance in fancy hats /
Whether you’re skinny /
Or whether you’re not /
Whether you’re cold or whether you’re hot /
Let’s dance /
Let’s dance like tumbleweeds /
Like lions like tigers like swans /
Like graceful medusas, like elephants, like peacocks, like mice /
Let’s dance /
Let’s dance no matter who /
Let’s dance no matter how /
On rooftops, in the alleys /
Or while getting gas /
Let’s dance /
It’s been enough of small talk /
Now we see what we’re all about /
Just move that body /
Just give it a chance /
J
ust give it a try — let’s dance
~
I found that stained leaf of paper among a stack of her prints, xeroxed onto paper. Found it when she was still doing well, and then I read aloud the poem, and together we laughed — the gas station line got me then, and still now. “Let’s dance” then became a mantra around here. I would say it randomly, or she would. We’d say it before popping Brooklyn back on, or clearing the cat litter, or once when I asked if she wanted a bubbly she smiled and said, let’s dance.
Let’s dance is what I whispered in her ear earlier, before putting on some Elvis gospel music and climbing into bed with her — I learned today she’s still responding to this, to music. First I’d put on Chopin’s Nocturnes, and she uttered the word “heaven.” Then came some Louis Armstrong, and Doris Day, then Elvis, then back to Chopin.
It was a good day. I’m going to call it a good day. A better day than yesterday. She was calmer. More restful. And once when asked if she was comfortable, instead of nodding or shaking her head as usual, she only said I love you.
I love you and Heaven and Amen were her only words of the day. The Amen came when the pastor was here, the pastor who read to her, who prayed, who even sang. When he sang she lifted her hand into the air. When he put ointment onto her forehand and finished his prayer, she uttered the Amen.
She is going now. It’s very clear.
I am trying not to be sad. Trying to be happy. Trying to celebrate her. Trying to still get her to smile. Trying to fill this space now with music, with touch, with words. Trying to say, let’s dance.
~
“My art was not… didn’t have continuation. It never had a consistent continuation. Maybe that’s why it’s hard to explain. Babcia’s art had continuation. … ”
I’d asked her, in a conversation we had a week ago, if that was because Babcia’s life had more continuation. More stability. Or: is this just who a person is? Because let’s face it: Babcia — my grandmother, her mother — had one home for practically all her life, one husband, and really a fairly consistent style. A straighter line.
“But instead, it’s like a scrapbook, that’s kind of chaotic.”
You mean yours, I asked?
“Yeah. It’s a scrapbook. ‘Here is This, this is This, this is Flowers, this is, uh… ‘Sounds in a Desert.’ This is… New York-style graffiti. …”
I told her I didn’t think it was so wrong to have very different things, in different periods. To experiment. To let the wind take you. But also said, “The whole thing with you is interesting in how you wish you would have just done this more simple thing all your life — this line, and fragments, and that’s what you settled on. But also, at the same time, when you sat down and did something totally different with this Rocky book, and I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”
She said nothing for awhile. Just thought. Then she brought up Maria Konwicka, the woman she’d been reading and finding such a closeness to, through her book, her story.
“Like, for example, Marysia. Marysia Konwicka. She is so intellectual, and she’s like — her fascination is mysticism, and she was always so… always so interested in people’s philosophies and beliefs, stuff like this. And then she has this wonderful — she is a wonderful chronicle, she does the chronicle of her family so well. And it’s just very beautiful, the thing that she does. But wouldn’t it be nice for her to drop all this one day and dance?”
Here I laughed. I laughed so heartily.
“Wouldn’t we be so happy for her,” Mom continued, “if she did that? One day, just: ‘Marysia went dancing.’ Right? She would say, ‘I don’t care about the philosophy of the young. Or… from India. I want to dance! I want to have some great band, great guy taking me dancing! Have some vodkas. Have some dances. Come on!’
“But you know what,” Mom continued, “One thing is that animals — nobody is disputing that they make sense. I mean Kot Iwan (the Cat Ivan, famous in the Konwicki household) is like… is like more important than all of these philosophers. She’s been more devoted, and also Konwicki — they’ve been more devoted to Iwan than to anybody else, right? Kot Iwan was very interesting!”
And you, I said, have been more devoted to your cats, or to Rocky, than anything.
“I know.”
So, I say to her, do you want to change the title of the book to Fuck art, lets dance?
“I wish I could! Could I change it like, Drop art, let’s dance, or … Forget art, let’s dance” ?
Nothing has the same power, I say, as Fuck art, let’s dance. Let’s face it.
Mom was being a bit tongue-in-cheek. She was playing with me, dancing with me here to keep me laughing. She knows what this book we’ve been writing together should be called. But Fuck art, let’s dance would be one hell of an alternative.
After some more silence, more thinking, she said:
“I’m so glad that art let me go. Because once art gets you, you’re in the clutches of art. But art let me go. … I just couldn’t paint anymore. It was just so hard for me to paint. I just lost… Like, I could only paint what was happening outside of me, with those lines. Like even some political stuff that bothered me and stuff. But you see, art let me go. Because I decided I have no knack for it. So… but it could have been, like, holding me. Like: oh yeah, another painting, another painting, another painting. … But no. It just let me go.”
But Mom, I said, I don’t think you don’t have a knack for it. Your paintings are fantastic.
Then the phone rang, ending the conversation for now. The call was long-distance, from Poland.
~
Let’s dance.
My brother will be here soon. And Mom’s brother, too.
Let’s dance is what I know she would want to be saying to them now. To everyone. To you. To me. To anyone reading this or thinking of her — ever. Now and forever she would tell us to dance in our sparkly dresses, our fancy hats. Or while getting gas, let’s dance.
It’s been enough of small talk
Now we see what we’re all about
Let’s dance is what I know she would say to Babcia, Babcia who no longer will have that phone call at the end of every day, from her daughter here across the sea. Babcia knows this. It’s why she’s not even calling now, only emailing.
Kasiu Jas caluje Was mocno with love mama babcia !!!!!! U nas pare dni upaly !!! — Kasia, Jas, strong kisses to you, with love mama grandma !!!!!! here we have a few days of a heat wave!!!
What to say. What to tell her. I wrote only in Polish, We love you very much Babcia. Please spend time on the balcony, and eating chłodnik, and on Saturday take your osteoporosis medicine and dance! These are our wishes, from us to you.
When I said this to Mom, whispered in her ear what Babcia had written to us, and what I’d written back, Mom with her eyes closed now — she smiled. She nodded.
Babcia then wrote back. Jestescie tacy Kochani !!!!!!!!!!! w sobote bede brala lekarstwo, pamietam.!!!!!
— You are such Darlings !!!!!!!!!!! on Saturday I’ll be taking the medicine, I’ll remember.!!!!!
Let’s dance.
