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Black and white photographer, silver-gelatin printer, student of Paul Caponigro, Czech by birth, American by the serendipities of life, traveler, dreamer, seeker, knitter, baker maker…

Perhaps the best way to say who I am and why I photograph, is to share an essay I wrote in the spring of 2018 for “The Maine Arts Journal: The UMVA Quarterly.”

 Origins Stories

I grew up in a house made of books; children’s books, classics, detective stories,

forbidden publications that escaped communist censorship being passed down by

generations of writers. Books lined the walls of our house, a parish established by

my minister grandparents who had moved to my small hometown near the Czech-

German border after the Second World War.

Books filled the bags my mother brought home from her job at the library. They

shaped the quiet moments I spent with my father, an archivist who at times would

bring home a rare treat, an old book as big as his desk, that I was not allowed to

touch, only admire the yellowed pages and elaborate images that formed the first

letters of every chapter. On the weekends, I would spend long dreamlike hours at

work with my parents, run in the hallways and between the tall stacks of the

library and the archive, both buildings becoming my playground. The infinite

wealth of stories they held offered a safe refuge from the confusing world around,

from school that represented the communist establishment which was so at odds

with home, with my intellectual anti-communist parents and my grandparents who

dedicated their lives to Church, an increasing oddity in the secular domain of the

regime.

The never-ending tales on the pages intertwined with the stories I heard about my

family; humorous anecdotes exchanged at dinner about the absurdities of

communism or eerie accounts of time gone that were only hushed and whispered

when the women in the family gathered on Sunday afternoons. Over yarn and

needles I listened to the life story of my great-grandmother who became a political

prisoner in the early days of communism. Always an excellent cook, perhaps she

had learned in the ration days of the war to make something out of nothing, she

improved the conditions of her incarceration by offering the jail her cooking skills.

I heard stories of my grandfather who had been taken to a labor camp for his

involvement with the Church. I listened to accounts of my grandmother who left

alone with two young children took over the ministry fighting hard to keep a

Church presence under a regime that persecuted its members. Decades later when,

unbeknown to all of us, the gray days of communism were coming to an end, my

mother too became the breadwinner when my father suffering from depression was

taken away to a mental institution. To supplement her librarian income, she would

sell the handknits she crafted in the evenings.

Just as my grandfather’s landscape paintings that brightened our days with their vivid greens and yellows, the lives of my parents and grandparents inspired me with the every- day creativity of those who at time and time again had to reinvent themselves in order to survive.

The Haitian American writer Edwidge Danticat believes that every immigrant is an artist,

that “the experience of touching down in a totally foreign place is like having a blank

canvas.” In the August 2013 issue of the Atlantic, Danticat suggests that “You begin with

nothing, but stroke by stroke you build a life. This process requires everything great art

requires—risk-tasking, hope, a great deal of imagination, all the qualities that are the

building blocks of art. You must be able to dream something nearly impossible and toil to bring it into existence.”

Like many others who have moved across the world to create the work of art that is a life well lived, I have adjusted to my new home, and like the women in my family, I have crafted a livelihood out of eggs and flour, at times yarn and fiber. And when words were not enough to give me the answers I needed: where is home and who am I, I reached for the camera, dived into visual language where boundaries are blurred, worlds co-exist and time is but an idea, where in the landscapes taken over here you can hear the echo of the stories whispered over there, where the glossy cobblestones of the streets in my hometown reflect the dreams I spun in my new home, dreams I write down in silver.

Essay originally published in:

“The Maine Arts Journal: The UMVA Quarterly.”

Spring 2018 Issue, Origins Stories

http://maineartsjournal.com/origins-stories-anna-mikuskova