Jazz
The following stories are about my Mom. About her life and her art, with her own words weaved in. What evolved here, from the summer of 2023, was a kind of last art project together, though in the beginning she wanted little to do with its authorship — but it’s OK, she said, whatever you do will be great. She was always my biggest fan.
My mother’s name was Anna Katarzyna Gajewska, née Jastrzebska. She was born in Warsaw and she died in Los Angeles. Between these two points she looked for her self in forms, in colors and space, as I now look for her.
Mom’s book, her beginning
The pages inside the binder, seventy two of them, they’re held together by a metal clamp and alternate between text and photos of her paintings, with the text pages usually brief, two or three paragraphs at a time to describe a moment or the pictures to come.
Mom’s original title?
War and Peace in my Heart
‘But I am ready…’
“I always thought it was unfinished, but then I came to like it like that.”
Mom’s book, our Liberty
Sometimes Liberty
Is to conquer yourself
Sometimes Liberty is to have a home
Sometimes Liberty is to get a meal
Sometimes Liberty is not to be alone
Mom’s book, our bubbly
What’s the difference between her and Mom? Between her and me? Between us and that ballerina in front of Mom’s backdrop?
Between any of us?
Mom’s book, our cloud
Look, a cloud!
This, this is living in L.A.
Look, a cloud!
This is what Mom says when she wakes up this morning and looks out past the leaves of the palm tree that brush up against her bedroom window, looks out and up to that sliver of visible sky. “Jas,” she says, “This cloud is for us. This means it will be a good day.”
The third book, and Mom’s waltz
I found it, the third book. Maybe it found me. Maybe we found each other yesterday as I was shifting things from room to room, making way for the hospital bed about to be delivered. It was inside of a plastic bin I was moving from upstairs to down — wait, what’s this? Some pages inside of an orange folder.
Mom’s book, our patio, our rain
When my son came from Houston after graduating he brought his friend with him. I had great subjects to photograph — these young, handsome people and their friends. The new creative generation, right after college, with dreams hidden in their heart: dreams of writing about sports, dreams of publishing a book, dreams of acting. They were the future of this country, hard workers, facing challenges, working jobs without benefits, just holding on to their dreams.
Signs (so far)
And I did ask her before: Hey, hey Mom, if you’re not too busy, could you send me some? She said sure.
So was that her?
Stories from next door
“You know, I would catsit for her. When she would go out of town. And she would have these specific instructions. Like, so specific. All written out and everything. ‘Fillow needs more attention than the others, he’s really sensitive. So please spend some time with him, pet him, make sure he’s OK.’ … Oh, and there was a certain time I was supposed to play music for them, put on the radio. She had it set to a certain channel, it was set to a specific program she said they liked. I think it was classical? Yeah, classical.”
Mom’s book, let’s continue
I became more of a thinker and a capturer of reality — still poetic reality, still with beautiful things. Even taking my dog for a walk was poetry.
Her socks and underwear
In the chaos of things left — things to go through and things to save, things to donate or throw away — in this absolute storm of things and things and cats and things…
We have an old, wooden chest of drawers.
Now her pants
Oh no. Oh lord. What’s this now, in the bottom drawer. In Pants. …
No pants. Just papers.
Here we go again. But what now…
© 2023 Jan Gajewski and Anna Gajewska