Was I a communist?

I have just listened to Polish radio having my Aussie breakfast. It is a very turbulent and sad time in Poland. People reminisce and worry. The people I have in mind are intellectual and/or moral role models for me. I have kept those people in high regard. Now with political changes they feel that the country is going in a tragically wrong direction. The subjects of the discussions are generally depressing and I should not really poison myself with that type of news. But I can not stop it in spite of numerous promises I give myself. In the last couple of days the main news subject is Lech Walesa. So called historians are pushing him off the pedestal, the place he deserves in eyes of many. Mine as well. Not so much a pedestal maybe as a luminous place in the country history and gratitude of all Polish people. This is really not my subject of writing today, but the worry about Walesa, his health, pride, safety and wellbeing makes me think about him excessively right now.

                               

Listening to various discussions about experience in communistic times brings back memories. They are happy, actually, memories. Not that the times were particularly joyful but my youth was free of worries. It was very difficult to get many everyday items and food. Not that I was ever hungry and I have not seen really hungry people then, but it was difficult to buy things. There were queues in every shop for anything. One bought things when they were available not when one needed them. And we queued for everything. I loved queues in bookshops. One could have a really good conversation sometimes and plenty of time to expand on any subject while waiting to get to the counter. There were the times when I did not do comfort eating and I felt I really did not need or particularly liked food. At the same time due to my parents rather privileged situation and my father’s initiative there were the times I ate best beef filets, partridges, quails, crayfish and absolutely organic vegetables. And I even did not understand that it was anything special about it. It must be a bit confusing for people who did not live in Poland in the communistic times or it may even come across as confabulation.

I remember one of my first visits to some very civilized Scandinavian family in Sydney. In fact it was my only visit at their home as I misbehaved very badly. I understand that they did not want to have much to do with a rude communist, I appeared to be. It started with introducing me to civilization and sympathizing with horrible things I must have experienced. I tried to correct some of their impressions, but with prolonged sympathetic treatment my pride and frustration woke up. At the same time my English could not cope with the challenge of the moment. I was missing the right words. Responding to descriptions of horrific communistic times and my  miserable life in Poland, I used the only argument that came to mind. It was - BS. I used it more than once as I was really angry. Now, I blush a bit remembering the time and inappropriateness of my defense. It was silly on many levels. One of many funny mistakes and inabilities of youth combined with Polish temper...

There was a time I was seen as a communist and this was rather dangerous to my happiness and could have finish in heartbreak.  When I was introduced to my future in-laws, they focused on my Polish background not knowing much about me. Even if they really knew me, I was still a sort of an oddball, at least in a conservative Swedish society. My future husband met with greeting of his father: I fought communists all my life and you are bringing one to MY home!!!  It was all happening behind the scenes and I was not aware of how controversial my visit at this civilized home was. The redeeming factors were my small feet (I still wonder why it was important) and correct behaviour combined with good skills of eating crayfish on a festive Swedish yabby night.

                          

Crayfish reminds me of a story, I particularly like, told by my uncle. The uncle came from an aristocratic family that in the times before the 2^nd World War lived in the eastern part of Poland, now belonging to Ukraine. When I mentioned crayfish in one of  family dinner conversations, we heard comment muttered under his breath: “When in my family the fish pond was drained off water, we ate the fish and gave crayfish to the village rabble”. It is all relative and this is beautiful. Some think crayfish is wonderful, some think it is rubbish.

Interesting what morning musing can result in. Maybe this is a function of many memories being stored in my memory bank?

Memorable Australia Days

                               

One of the most significant days in my life was the Australia Day of 1979. I must confess that until this particular day I was not aware of the 26^th of January being a holiday. But on the day I and my husband landed at Mascot to start calling Australia home. We were tired after the 30 hours flight, a bit anxious about how this new life is going to be for us, but generally, very positive and happy. Definitely a good New Beginning! It was a cool day and we were expecting 40 degrees plus! Since we were coming from a very cold weather in Frankfurt, minus 20 or close to it, I had my marten coat with me and I even put it on to free my hands for luggage collection. It was the only time I had this coat on in Australia, but at the time I thought that some stories about the Australian weather are not all that accurate.

The natives were very friendly and took care of the couple of migrants warmly and well. As our prior arrangements did not work out as planned we took the offer of an migration officer who waited for us at the airport to take us to the Endeavour  Migrant Hostel at Coogee. It was great, we got our own little flat with a little kitchen, and we only needed to share the communal bathroom. A woman in a marten coat must have looked really strange in Sydney summer staying at the hostel for migrants. But, boy, what a happy day it was! I will always remember this Australia Day very fondly.

The second memorable Australia Day was in 1985. This was the day when I officially became an Australian. It took a very sad event for me to feel that my links with Poland are broken. My mother’s death. I was then free to change my country officially and in my heart. Australia welcomed me again.

The North Sydney council organized a ceremony for new Australians. It was a reception, pictures, certificates and souvenirs. I was moved.  For many, many years I felt exclusively Australian and did not think much about Poland. I did not meet Poles so I did not speak the language and I had very seldom contacts with family and friends in Poland.   

When I was asked about my nationality due to my “charming” accent, I was typically a bit irritated and my answer was: Australian, I only sound funny. Since then my contacts with Poland got much closer and now I have two home countries in my heart and two passports to show for it. At times I feel a bit confused about my identity.

The third Australia Day I remember well was in 2009. It was the thirties anniversary of me coming to live here. I thought that it would be good to visit Coogee on the day. I traveled a long time on a bus to get there, but I could not find the old hostel for migrants. It may not even exist any more; so many years have passed… 

I have not planned anything special for today except for small self indulgence of doing things I like. Reading, writing this post, watching tennis, planning etc. Agnieszka Radwanska gave me a little present with her victory and qualifying to the semifinal of the Australian Open. I have stuck a little Australian flag, complements of the local council, in my geranium pot and feel that I am a celebrating Australian.

On Friedship

Friendship is one of my very core values. Since I was a small girl I thought that friendship was the best a girl could experience. My mother was a romantic at heart and supplied me with books that glorified friendship between girls. I was the only child for 10 years. Then my brother appeared in my life and the life of the family. By that time I did not need a small noisy thing at home. It upset my world that was full of ideas I found in books. And I read the books my romantic mother supplied me with. The main influence was Ann of Green Gables and a book about a princess from Georgia. The second book was a translation from Russian. It was a very old book, referred to as a pre-war edition. Definitely a pre-communistic literature representing very capitalistic ideas. The book must have been forbidden in Russia. The story was about a princess who lost her mother, the unruly girl was placed by her loving father in a boarding school. His decision, however,  was influenced by a skimming and wicked woman. The school was a very exclusive boarding school in Saint Petersburg. The princess felt lonely but she found true friendship among her schoolmates. 

                                                                         

Maybe I will be able to get this book when next time in Poland, a Polish translation though

                                                       

These were friendships for life, till death do us part sort of thing. I responded to this idea vehemently and this is how friendship became my top value that still is the most important of them all. It represented love, honesty, unconditional support, trust and many other beautiful things. Actually, I consider myself most of all a friend. This is my label – I am a friend. It is a relatively new realization even if friendship has been always present and sought for through most of my life. There were times I thought I was a wife, a partner, a manager. Now I know, I am most of all a friend. I do have my own Diana, the best friend of Ann Shirley from the Green Gables. Our friendship does not go as far as the grammar school but it goes to the first day at uni.  It has been long enough to call her my friend for life. She is now the most trusted person in my life and I am very happy and grateful for that.

When I think about real friendship, I really have a friendship with a woman in mind. That is how it was in those books. Boys did feature, unless they were to become at some stage romantic partners. Like Gilbert Blythe. However, there are so many “howevers” in life, I have some male friends that are also true, valued friends.

What friendship means to me? It is trust, permanency, support, understanding, fondness and many other warm and fuzzies. When I was a young woman two of my very close friends died before they turned 30. They were my first loses of friends. It was very painful but there was no betrayal or rejection behind the end of those friendships. I wonder how far they would go. Would they finish prematurely? Would they last till this day?

When some of my friendships finish, I hurt a lot and can not understand it. Friendships do not finish. That is how it was in those books. Friendships are forever. I still want to think that and believe in it. There is a saying that I found at times comforting: Friends are for a reason, for a season or for life. Yes, I have had seasonal friends in my life as well, but those friends who are not “for life” are they real friends or are they my lapse of judgment?

This Picasso painting represents women friendship to me

                                     

Nostalgia and confusion

I love my two countries, Poland and Australia and I travel from one to another partly because I have to but really because I want to spend time in each of them. It really is my choice. My ultimate country is Australia. I have lived here longer than I had lived in Poland. At yet, because I was born and brought up in Poland my cultural and emotional links with the country have become very strong lately. Maybe it is a function of age? I am getting on? It is also due to that Poland developed in the last few years and has reached European standards in many areas. The shops are well stocked, selection of goods is often better than in Australia. Theatres, opera and concerts offer is fantastic and inexpensive. Books stores great! So many temptations that I always come back to Sydney with new, nicely published, interesting books that are now waiting in the queue till I find time to read them all.

Focus on culture was always very strong in Poland. During communistic times arts and culture were available to all who were interested. Keeping up with the Joneses was present but it looked different than in Western countries. One looked up to and tried to keep up with people who read good books, saw ambitious films and plays, used sophisticated vocabulary, saw art exhibitions etc. It was a type of snobbery, but from a distance of time, I rather appreciate it. It is quite easy to understand the reason for such a cultural focus.  Luxuries goods and political freedom were not available and people needed panem et circenses – bread and games. Polish bread has always been fantastic, no need for improvement. Culture was means of appeasement, games and circuses for a poor, suppressed nation.

Not intending, I went on my memories trip. It was, really, going to be about nostalgia. So, ad rem. Recently I got a couple of photos from my Polish friends. One of them shows autumn version of my favourite chestnuts alley in Gdansk. Typically I get mushy when I see a spring edition of these majestic trees. This time even autumn colours triggered off nostalgia. Australians always liked that but me? not so much. In the past, I considered such views to be forerunners to bleak weather; rain and cold. Now, I do not spend winters in Poland so the golden leaves on the ground seem very attractive. Some years ago, when I spent more time in Poland than in Australia I was missing jacarandas. Nostalgia, a sentimental longing, seems to be present in my life more often than it would be logical. Seems that I want things that are not in my current life more than things I have and experience right now. Since this insight came to my attention and after all I am a coach, time to focus on the current moment and live now with joy the best I can. But nostalgia, like parting, is such a sweet sorrow…

P.S. I am not sure why I used two Latin expressions today. I even do not know the language. Is it a remnant of this old Polish cultural snobbery?

On belonging and Melbourne Cup

People who know Australia, understand that Melbourne Cup day, the first Tuesday of November is very special time to most Australians. Not exactly a national holiday but definitely a national day to celebrate this very special thoroughbred horses race, the race which stops the nation.

In my first year in Australia I was introduced to the rules of the day. The rules one has to follow if one wants to belong. First of all you need to place a bet either directly with TAB, Australia's Number 1 racing betting place, or through a sweep stake of a place you spend your Melbourne Cup in. The second rule is that you have to drink champagne and the third one obliges women to wear a hat or a fascinator. You just have to do it to feel an Australian. I, like most people, like to feel that I belong. My earlier post  covered my sentiments and thoughts on the subject.

I follow the Melbourne Cup rules except about the bit of wearing a hat or a fascinator. Maybe I need to put some more attention to it the next year and get myself something pretty, even though I think it is a bit silly.

I spent my first Melbourne Cup in an IBM office. One of my colleagues, who in fact was Scottish, but very much into betting and celebrating with alcohol, took care of the proceedings. Obviously he was going to place his bets in TAB, he was big on betting and I was asked to participate. I did not know anything about horses so I chose my favourite based on its name. I believe that I was Colonel Bill. I am not sure now but I remember that it was something military in the name of the horse. I got myself some sweepstakes tickets as well. When in Rome… Not having any knowledge of the horses, I won some money by chance and earned some respect amongst my colleagues and became a part of the team’s betting circle. I was very proud of it even if I was totally out of my depth in the subject. It did not stop me betting and for quite some months I was successful at it. Pretending brought fun and improved my reputation.

Later on, when I worked as an IT manager I was often invited to Melbourne Cup celebrations organized by recruitment companies. It was rather nice part of my professional responsibility to attend parties, especially that they very often took place on boats. Sydney Harbour with its extremely spectacular views, champagne, seafood lunch, national race and happy people around... Hard job, but someone has to do it. They were really nice times.

Now, that such invitations belong to the past, the Melbourne Cup lost its attractiveness to some extend. But tradition is tradition. I had a couple of invitations this year. One to my bowling club and one to my bridge club. I felt very lucky being able to choose and I chose the bridge club celebrations. It was fun. I love playing bridge, even if after a long break in playing I am a beginner again. Catching up, though. It was a lot of bridge in the morning and I enjoyed playing with my newly found partner, Florence. Lovely name, isn’t it? We got on very well. Bridge results were not outstanding but I enjoyed the game. The lunch broke my new sensible eating habit and champagne was of course on the menu. All according to the rules.

 Most of the ladies had pretty head adornments, I did not have any. But I was called to be a part of the jury to allocate prices for the best hats.

One of the most spectacular fascinators that I like

                                                   

Nobody concentrated for a race really except for those few minutes when the race took place. We all had our sweepstakes tickets.  I drew Pirate of Penzance and the horse won! The winning paid for the whole event. Lucky me.

As I found out later, from a friendly post, there is a very nice and touching story behind the winning jockey, Michlelle Payne, a first woman winning Melbourne Cup . It pleased me, of course, to see a talented person demonstrating her ability in a discipline not typically considered feminine. 

The winning moments

                                                 

Wojciech Fangor

Few month ago I heard the first time about Wojciech Fangor, a Polish artist, and this was in relation to some of my mildly feministic comments on a post about Australian Archibald Award 2015.

I googled the artist and it helped me to recall some of his work from childhood memories. There were communistic times, which we in Poland called socialism. Communism was in Russia in Poles minds, we had only socialism. However, Poland was oppressed and art had to support the ideology of the communistic rulers. In those times, artists work to be published, exhibited, staged etc had to support and glorify the communistic ideology.  Artists had to create their art to a recipe of communism. Fangor was one of them. Naturally such people were frowned upon by those who sacrificed their careers to protect integrity. My first reaction to Fangor was negative. I remembered his posters. Hush, the Enemy Is Listening poster was everywhere. I remember it from grammar school. The enemies were all people from the “rotten west”. I was supposed to keep secrets from them. Only I have not met any for some years, so I was not tmpted. What stayed in me though was a tendency to diminish in my mind work of those artists who made too big careers in the communistic times. Fangor did. So I almost automatically dismissed him, but the painting which was brought to my attention in the course of the blogging conversation was good. I had to admit it. Its ideological expression is most likely missed or misunderstood today. The times are over, or are they?   
               
                          

                                         Early posters of Fangor with communistic message.  

Yesterday the Law and Justice Party took over power in Poland. A very sad day for me. I worry for the country that was developing so beautifully. The party has its strong views on many things. My views rarely are the same. They declare that art is to serve their ideology; no decadent ideas will be given free rein. I can expect even more monuments of John Paul II and the late president Kaczynski, the twin brother of the leader of the victorious party, more books on the “right” subjects, more pictures, plays and films supporting the conviction of the party and its ruler. The times of the art serving the rulers are coming back with the vengeance.

Back to Fangor. He died yesterday, age 93. I am glad that I did not dismiss him as a post communistic relict and googled some more to find many paintings I love. There are two examples.

Pieta after El Greco

                         

He had a remarkable career and he left valuable legacy. Warsaw metro stations have its names and entrances designed by him. He is considered to be a father of Polish poster school even if it started in support of communism.

This is what I am still mulling over. Do artists have a right to create in support of ideology they disagree with or even despise? Ideology that hurts and kills people? Does it make them responsible for the harm? Is art free of such responsibilities?

Names of Warsaw metro stations designed by Fangor

And to finish the story, he died in  2015 in Warsaw and is berried at the cemetery of Powaski in Warsaw as a celebrated artist.  The last piece of art, this time dedicated to him is his grave monument. I like this artistic expression of farewell to him. This is by K.Bednarski.

                                              

Au revoir to Gdansk

I will be going back to my second home tomorrow. With some regret I will be saying “see you later Gdansk”. A lot has happened in Gdansk for me. Good, fantastic, uplifting, bad and sad. This year it has been more good than during my last stays here. I have been able to reflect on what next and even if I do not have all the answers I feel that I have made progress. My proverbial “how to live prime minister?” has some answers now.

I have done a lot of flaneuring in Gdansk and I discovered a lot of beauty in the old streets, old parks, coffee places and European lash nature. I am aware that I lived through the summer best. The doom is just around the corner and I am flying away to my warm count

My favourite park

My favourite street

I always loved the concept of café life. The famous café Les Deux Magots in Paris the hub of literary life always woke up special feelings and reflections in me. Mind you it was in the first half of the XX century but some of that atmosphere is still alive in Europe. I do not know people in Gdansk I could sit for hours at a table in a corner of an atmospheric cafe and discuss important things. But I can go to a place of an old beauty and sit there for hours with a book, notebook or a computer. 

This is the view from one of such cafes 

 But I can go to a place of an old beauty and sit there for hours with a book, notebook or a computer. They usually even have a wi fi.  Nobody comes to indicate that my time in the place is up. Such is the case in Sydney and I think in the whole Australia. Coffee places are places of business and that requires that new orders are placed frequently. The European ways are not money spinners and I have no idea how it all functions from the financial point of view, I suspect not very well for the owners but great for me – a customer.

I will be missing all that.