A Window into "Singing Roots"

The music played in the background; I was lost in thought, a strip of cardboard in my hand. My daughter entered my studio and showed me a photograph she had taken of me moments before. I gazed at the photograph. It lured me in. Something in the movement of my hands transported me back to my childhood, to my grandmother.

My grandmother, my Savta, was a gentle woman. Her head always tilted sideways when she listened. Her eyes were soft and when she looked at me, she penetrated my soul. She had a lopsided smile punctuated by a dimple.

My grandmother always sang. When she told stories, she sang. When she braided my hair, she sang. When she was sad, she sang.

 

As a child I loved spending time with my Savta. She would place a lump of clay in the palm of my hand and say:

“Now it’s your turn to tell me a story.”

 

Grandma always listened with gentleness and insight.

 Suddenly the faded smell of a moment in time tickled my senses.

 It was a hot summer’s day. The scorching sun beating down. The air heavy and stifling. The smell of hay danced to the light accompanied by my grandmother’s tender singing. She was weaving handmade baskets in harmony with her song. I gazed in awe at her fingers twisting the palm fronds with speed and dexterity in repetitive spiralling movements, as if manipulating and committing to memory a life story from a distant land with a tune that captured my heart. When she stopped singing, I asked her a question. And then, of course, she continued her singing.

Irritably, I asked her:

 

“Savta, you didn’t answer my question.”

With half a smile and a dimple she replied quietly:

 “I answered you my child, but you didn’t listen.”

I looked at the photograph again. An image of me leaning towards my sculptures, and my hand movement the same as my grandmother’s.
For a long time I sat and stared at the sculptures embracing me  in their harmony. And then I understood how my grandmother’s singing has accompanied me. Each sculpture in tune with its internal voice. Each sculpture a singing root. Each sculpture a note from my grandmother’s song.

Each sculpture bearing witness that I did listen. 

 

"To myself 

To my surroundings

To my grandmother"

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