Lacrimae rerum

Lacrimae Rerum -There are tears in things

 I first learned this Latin phrase, and its profound interpretation through an author named Daniel Mendelsohn a few years ago whilst reading Mendelsohn’s 2007 book ‘The Lost ~ a search for six of the six million’.

I’ve not read many books on the Holocaust, finding them just too painful, but something in the way Daniel writes, and his personal search really resonated with me. He had grown up amongst family in the USA who had spoken of his absent Uncle Shmuel in hushed mournful tones throughout his childhood, some relatives even comparing the young Mendelsohn to Shmuel, finding his likeness unsettling. However, it wasn’t until many years later, after his grandfather’s death (Shmuel’s brother) that he found a secret stash of desperate letters sent by Shmuel from Poland on the eve of the Holocaust.

Daniel set out to trace the family’s fate; Shmuel’s wife and four daughters were also known to have perished. Seeking out eyewitnesses to try and piece together what had transpired, Daniel’s search took him to twelve countries including Israel, Australia, Poland and Ukraine, constantly aware that time was running out.

He was accompanied by his brother Matt, an award-winning photographer, whose black and white documentary images of the brothers’ journey influenced my approach to recording my own journey.

(Matt’s photo’s can be viewed here: https://www.mattmendelsohn.com/photo-essays/footsteps-lost )

Bolecow Cemetary. Photograph: Matt Mendelsohn

There were several moments in the book which caused me to stop everything I was doing and sit head in hands overwhelmed by what I had just read, so powerful was the imagery Mendelsohn evoked. It is one thing to read historical accounts, trying to process what your mind cannot accept, but quite another to have it brought to life in a way that transports you, causing you to weep for the characters.

In another place, Mendelsohn describes the moment he showed an elderly reticent survivor (Meg Grossbard) a photograph of her best friend, one of Shmuel’s daughters. In this instant, he became aware that an image he had known from childhood, a likeness of a girl whose name he knew, but nothing more, had the power to transport the old lady back to a time when her world was intact- when THE world was intact.

“ “I had never really thought about this until I talked to Meg Grossbard that Sunday, and realized how casual, even thoughtless I was being, traveling around the world, talking to these survivors who had survived with literally nothing but themselves, and showing them the rich source of photographs that my family had owned for years, all those photographs I had stared at and later, dreamed about when I was growing up, images that for me had no real emotion or meaning at all in and of themselves, but which, to the people to whom I was now showing them, had the power to recall, suddenly, the world, and the life from which they’d been torn so long ago”.”

— Daniel Mendelsohn, The Lost

Mendelsohn writes in long sentences, overflowing with information and emotion throughout the book. I enjoyed his style, engaging with every aspect of his search, the forgotten untold stories he uncovered and his response.  It was this sentence however which remains with me. Profoundly succinct but loaded with emotion ‘There are tears in things’ expresses the inexpressible, so overwhelming were the details he uncovered, in the context of the incomprehensible magnitude of the Holocaust. With those three words, Daniel calls to mind the overwhelming sorrow evoked by uncovering the fate of Shmuel, his wife, and each of his four young daughters.

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I chose to borrow the phrase to describe a new project, intending to use few words if any, for each image, leaving the viewer to ponder the meaning. Every photograph in this set bears its own story, and yet this is partially hidden, unknowable to the audience. We all have images that may invoke the same response.

“I did and do believe, after all that I’ve seen and done, that if you project yourself into the mass of things, if you look for things, if you search, you will, by the very act of searching, make something that would not otherwise have happened, you will find something, even something small, something that will certainly be more than if you hadn’t gone looking in the first place, if you hadn’t asked our grandfather anything at all...There are no miracles, no magical coincidences. There is only looking and finally seeing, what was always there.”

— Daniel Mendelsohn, The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million

Lacrimae Rerum.

https://www.danielmendelsohn.com/books/the-lost-reviews

Spending time with my Dad

Today (Father's Day) is a good day to share this post.

During lockdown, I pulled out an old box of old negatives, all carefully labeled; a small remnant of my Father's huge photographic archive. Over the past few weeks, I have digitized them, bringing to life my dad's world before I ever existed. Many had scratches and dust spots so I have been working to remove those and then develop them in a way I feel gives them impact - playing with contrast, light and shadows.

In a sense I have been working with my dad, collaborating with the past, looking at life through his eyes. I wonder; 'why did he stop here? and marvel that the same little things catch our eye..a bird in its nest, broken buildings, the way the sunlight filters through the branches of a tree on our journey home.

My dad photographs emotion, intimacy, family, friends and colleagues. He leaves negative space in his portraits reminding me of his granddaughter's images; I recognized immediately Destiny does the same thing.

My father never lived to see me pick up a camera; or others in his family, but he left a legacy just the same. Working through his photographs in a sense I have been able to spend time with him, transported back to a time in his life that seems uncomplicated. I can see the love he has for his family; his wife and my oldest brother, then a little boy.

Just a decade after these were taken everything had changed. My mother arrived like a whirlwind, my sister and I followed shortly after..the rest is history as they say. These photo's bring both joy and pain. Remembering can be hard, especially when there has been heartache and great loss - but photographs are important. They are pieces of my past- a window into his life that was, a glimpse at the things that captured my dad's soul.

My father wasn't perfect, but that is why these images are important. He was human, a man who lived and made mistakes, but above all a man who loved- and gave me life. Photographs are so important, they have many lives and can be read in so many different ways. They are especially important when time has moved on and those in them are gone. They give context to who we are..who I am. I guess that is true of history itself- which is why it can be contextualized but never erased.

I loved my dad. Enjoy a trip through the 50s; join him and his fellow commuters as they travel to work, sit with them in the office, and stroll through post-war London with its men in cloth caps and bowler hats. It was a time to rebuild, and these images provide a glimpse into the remnants of 'an old way of life' - through the lens of one who lived it; Dick Workman. Thanks Dad. I miss you

‘Take a Seat’

Making Israel's terror victims known

(Part One)

‘Please take a seat’ © Jennie Milne 2018

Today I aim to give you a little insight into the documentary project ‘Do You Know My Name?’ a collection of stories gathered in Israel, each with a connection to terrorism.

Why did I choose to cover this theme? what prompted me, a 50-year mum who had spent 27 years in the home, to reach out to bereaved parents in another country, and then travel there to record their pain? How did I arrange to meet them? What was it like after traveling the length and depth of a foreign country learning one devasting story after another, to return to newly appreciated safety in the UK, and attempt to create a project that would engage others?

The subject of Palestinian terrorism towards the Jewish population in Israel is one that has received very little coverage and even less condemnation worldwide. Why is that? … a question that is especially pertinent considering the thousands of lives that have been taken in this way.

Ariel, Israel © Jennie Milne

To begin to answer these questions in a deserving manner would take a book, certainly not just a blog post, however, I must make a start. I promised each of those who graciously sat through my interviews and relived such raw pain, that I would do all I could to make their stories known. In the 19 months following the trip, my desire to do their stories justice - to provide a platform outside of Israel and the Jewish community, has not waned - in fact over subsequent months their stories have increasingly become intertwined with my own. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and author of ‘Night’ explained:

‘To listen to a witness is to become a witness’.

‘to listen to a witness is to become a witness’ ~ Elie Wiesel image © Jennie Milne 2018

Foremost I bear a responsibility to be a witness for those who trusted me with the most devastating losses of their lives, to create a space for them to speak through their silent portraits and give voice to their aching accounts. However, I believe my responsibility is not just to them, but to all of us.

In November 2019, 22-year-old Instagrammer Freddie Bentley shared on Breakfast television his view that learning about WW2 is bad for millenials mental health, arguing that ‘learning how many people died is not going to help anyone in the future’ He felt it was ‘too intense’. I was deeply troubled by his view and yet strangely understood his statement. Learning about the violent murder of anyone is shocking, (let alone the millions upon millions who perished during the war). Should we avoid the intensity of the facts to protect our minds?

Above Schechem/ Nablus © Jennie Milne 2018

It is difficult, even unbearable, to hear of another’s suffering, often it is so much easier to pass by on the other side with no responsibility for what we haven’t seen or heard. Why shoulder the burden?There are many justifiable reasons for this, and yet, I believe by seeking to do so we may miss not only the opportunity to help others, but rob ourselves of the blessing imparted by touching a life which has endured the fiercest of fires, yet retains an incredible ability to hope and to love. We need those powerful lessons so hard won by others, and show incredible ignorance if we dont understand their value.

Yes, we need to hear these stories, we must pass them on to our children; firstly because murder of the innocent demands justice. We lose something of our humanity when we bury our heads in the sand because ‘it isn’t happening to us’. ‘Never Again’ are the words so often invoked in relation to the Holocaust- words which should be learned and repeated and lived by until the end of time. Although there can be few, if any of the perpetrators from WW2 left to face earthly justice, we must seek justice for our own generation, on our own watch. We must not pass by on the other side pretending that we dont see. Justice is not only served by the capture and incarceration of the murderer. It must also be seen in protection of and advocacy for the innocent, solidarity against a wicked mindset which seeks and justifies the destruction of one soul - let alone a whole people.

“It is difficult, even unbearable, to hear of another’s suffering, often it is so much easier to pass by on the other side with no responsibility for what we haven’t seen or heard. ”

Jerusalem © Jennie Milne 2018

‘Do You Know My Name?’ was created in response to my unintentional discovery that the Jewish people still faced an age old evil, seeking their destruction; this time in their homeland, created to ensure their safety. I could not pass by. As I casually scrolled through my facebook newsfeed on the last day of June 2016, I was arrested by what I have come to term ‘the dangerous image’. Dangerous because the stark military image of a childs bloodsoaked bedroom was shocking on every level. Dangerous because of the evil let loose in that room which brutally and mercilessly took the life of an innocent 13-year-old Jewish girl. Dangerous because I could not unsee it, could not pass by on the other side, even if I chose to. Dangerous because it called me from the security of my home in Scotland to the very home in Israel where the child, Hallel Yaffa Ariel had been murdered. Knowledge demanded a response.

Hallel Yaffa Ariel © Rina Ariel

If we find ourselves drawn - as I was in this instance - our hearts moved, our sleep disturbed beacuse a story has invaded our peace, we must stop and listen. I knew nothing, that day in June, of the true extent of Palestinian terrorism in Israel. All I knew was that a beautiful child had been targetted because of her ethnicity, her parents left grief stricken, her little sisters, devastated and I expected, terrified. My daughter was a similar age and I did not dare imagine how I would have responded should she have suffered a similar fate. I made a connection based on a simple fact. Both Hallel Ariel and my daughter Faith were dancers. Sometimes that is all we need to stop and cross over with what little we may have to offer; it didnt matter that Hallel was an Israeli girl, that we had never met and lived cultures and continents apart.

Rina Ariel looking towards ‘the Vineyard of Hallel’ , planted in memory of her daughter © Jennie Milne 2018

On reflection I suppose you could add in the fact that I had discovered 2 years prior that my grandmother was Jewish, fleeing Poland during WW2, losing countless family in the Holocaust; that the fate of her people was fresh in my mind - or maybe that as a mother I could not imagine Rina Ariel’s grief and I wanted to let her know she was not alone. I wrote to Hallel’s parents, but it proved not to be enough. Hallel’s murder had caught my attention, yet I was to discover that ‘there are no shortage of terror victims in Israel’. Where was the outcry? The more I researched the more convinced I became that someone must comprehensively cover these stories. Eventually, in the absence of all but Guillio Meotti in his 2009 book ‘A New Shoah’ I decided I must do it. *

Ruth Gruber, the outstanding American journalist, photographer, writer, and humanitarian paved the way by stating;

“ You should have dreams, you should have visions. Never let any obstacle stop you. Everyone can look inside his or her soul and decide what he or she can do to make a world at peace, to end this fighting that goes on every day around the world. Look inside your soul and find your tools. I had two tools to fight evil. My camera and my pen”

— Ruth Gruber

To be continued

Finally meeting Rina. Kiryat Arba October 2018 © Jennie Milne

'Developing the Negative'

Behind the scenes

“The exhibition ran for three weeks, attracting very positive feedback, and I hope it will travel in the future. It has an important message; that who we are and what we experience in life matters. ”

— jennie Milne

I’m afraid I’ve been bad at blogging! I have been so busy over the last year; traveling, studying for an MA, preparing work for exhibitions - not to mention my ‘real’ work; looking after a large household and looking out for my kids, that I just haven’t written up the important stuff!

Now whilst we still are under lockdown and travel anywhere is impossible I aim to give the viewer a ‘look behind the scenes’ and explain the projects themselves. Apart from anything else, it’s a good thing for me to do. Maybe one day a long time from now one of my family will read these offerings and gain a little insight into their history and how the discovery of that same history changed me.

Sir Ian Wood Building, Robert Gordon University

At the beginning of 2020, just as Coronavirus had shown up on the world’s radar as a distant but emerging threat, my attention was focused on bringing together three projects I have developed since 2017 for an exhibition. This was to be held in the concourse of the Sir Ian Wood Building, RGU at the invitation of Libby Curtis, Head of Gray’s School of Art, Aberdeen. I aimed to tell a somewhat of an odyssey - a story that reached back into history pulling me in and in doing so, I hoped to engage others.

‘Developing the Negative’ SIWB concourse, RGU, Aberdeen. Febuary 2020

Beginning with a pilgrimage of my own, I planned to open the exhibition with three sections, the first dedicated to the search for my mother’s mysterious past entitled ‘Fragments that Remain’. Sandwiched in the middle section would be portraits and stories collected by descendants of Polish soldiers comprising the project ‘From Generation to Generation’- mostly gathered in my husband’s hometown of Fraserburgh (N.E.Scotland). For the final section, six portraits were to be included from a project I initiated entitled ‘Do You Know My Name?’, little-publicized stories gathered from survivors of terror attacks in Israel.

Rina Ariel speaking about her murdered 13 year old daughter, Hallel, to Faith Milne

One project led into another and so I endeavored to replicate this, taking people on a journey which begins by looking back, gathering fragments of information to gain context, then exploring how other’s experiences have shaped them. As part of the intricacies of my own journey, I have followed the peregrination of the Jewish people. I chose to sum up by highlighting some of the little known tragedies faced by those who have chosen to live in Israel today.

Holocaust Survivor Adam Adams, London.

I chose the name ‘Developing the Negative’ to encompass all three projects for its obvious connection to photography, but also because I wanted to highlight the character seen in those who have faced the unimaginable, each one featured emerging with so much to give others.

Preparation was undertaken on many levels; initially by identifying which stories to include. This was actually harder than it sounds! Each person I have met has touched me personally; all the stories were powerful, so cutting them out was a hard call. It was difficult as a photographer stepping back to decide which portrait was stronger, ensuring also that these images explored a narrative whilst sitting well next to each other. The need for consistency answered some of these questions; section one comprised of portraits whereas most of the strong images in section two were landscape crops.

George Cheyne and Jennie Milne, Febuary 29th 2020

I worked in collaboration with George Cheyne from RGU Arts and Heritage Trust, and ‘Look Again’ It was brilliant having such lovely professionals taking care of many details such as preparing the posters, interpretation panels, refreshments, and invitations. George prepared all the ‘walls’ and helped me hang the work. He is such a lovely guy and a real pleasure to work with.

Opening night saw individuals from a variety of backgrounds come together to view the work and listen to the explanatory presentation. Photographers, leading members of the Polish and Jewish Communities, genealogists, University lecturers, examiners and peers, family and friends all gathered in the university’s amphitheater, some traveling from as far as Shetland, Edinburgh, and Glasgow to be present. To say it was humbling is an understatement.

Libby Curtis introducing Jennie Milne. Opening night, RGU Amphitheatre

“This is an important body of work. Jennie’s commitment to her practice, and to this difficult and challenging subject, has brought the hidden stories of so many people to life. The connections and reach that her work has forged reveals the integrity and creative power of storytelling and importantly the medium of photography.
”

— Libby Curtis, Head Gray's School of Art

Developing the Negative presentation

The exhibition ran for three weeks, attracting very positive feedback, and I hope it will travel in the future. It has an important message; that who we are and what we experience in life matters. We must not be afraid of those who have suffered through no fault of their own, in fact, we can learn from them. Perspective counts. We should not be afraid to cross borders, rejecting prejudice to learn from one another. We are all human at the end of the day. The media does not always tell the truth, it can and sometimes does direct a narrative that hides the truth. We must take responsibility for our own learning and be open to others.

“This exhibition has an important message. I sincerely hope and pray it travels far.”

— Guest Book

To view the exhibition online, please look under the ‘Exhibition’ tab on this website. To take a look at the projects mentioned in more depth look under the ‘Projects’ tab.

I am working on updating and adding information to my website so please keep coming back to check. Contact me directly if you wish to talk or ask any questions. I intend to blog about each project so watch out for that too. Finally, stay safe, and I hope to see you somewhere near your home when I am back on the road!

Many thanks to the wonderful ‘Developing the Negative’ sponsors. Your help is greatly appreciated!

Meet Arnold Roth

Yesterday I received a link to the leading story in the Times of Israel; an article describing the murder of 15-year-old Malki Roth in the Sbarro restaurant bombing, Jerusalem on August 9th 2001. A thoroughly comprehensive account, it details the unimaginable pain at her loss and her parent’s years-long fight for the extradition of her unrepentant murderer from Jordan, to the USA. I had to stop halfway through, I was so overwhelmed by the sheer horror and heartache her parents bear.

I was sent the report by Arnold Roth, Malki’s father through Whatsapp. I first met Arnold in Jerusalem in October 2018; he was one of nine individuals I photographed, each with a devastating story regarding the murder of a loved one due to terrorism. Although I wrote up each interview when I came home, gathering their images and stories into a book I entitled ‘Do You Know My Name?’, I have never written in this manner, describing our meeting and the continued impact their loss has made on me.

Arnold Roth October 2018

Pompidou Bistro and Bar, Jerusalem

I felt a connection to Arnold before we even shared breakfast at the Pompidou Bistro, a quiet restaurant in a leafy Jerusalem street.- Arnold's choice of venue. I made my way there alone; the only interview I was able to walk to by myself, and as I did so the words of the prophet Isaiah turned over and over in my mind “Comfort, O Comfort my people, speak tenderly to Jerusalem’. ..meeting with the parent of a murdered child I had learned, carried an aching pain of its own.

We had discovered through the shared emails sent between Israel and Scotland in preparation for this appointment, that we could possibly be related. We shared my grandmother’s surname, Rothenberg; Arnold’s survivor parents had shortened his name to Roth, as a small boy in Melbourne to make life a little easier for him. Our Rothenberg’s, Rotenberg’s, Rottenberg’s (the spelling seems to change depending on the document) found their roots in the same part of Poland - Galicia, part of the former Austro Hungarian Empire. This fact alone, as one retrieving precious relatives in ones and two’s from the utter void which had been my mother’s experience of family, endeared me to him.

Arnold, I discovered, is a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, courteous, warm, and very engaging. Between the bites of breakfast which he so kindly ordered, I learned the details of his family search; both his parents had survived the hell of the Holocaust whilst losing many many members of their families. Arnold’s father, born into a family of 17 children was one of only 3 survivors.

His mother, he told me, dreamt of Jerusalem ‘during the many black days of forced labor and unspeakable suffering as a victim of the German oppression that took the lives of her parents and all three of her brothers.’. I learned of the community of survivors he grew up amongst in Melbourne, where no- one had grandparent’s, and the insights into his parent’s past which came during the night whilst overhearing their nightmares.

He shared with me the ebullience of those same survivors, their determination to live life for their children and grandchildren, the lack of hatred expressed towards those under whom they had suffered the incomprehensible, unbearable destruction of all they had known and all those they loved. His words filled every sentence to bursting, reminding me of acclaimed author Daniel Mendelsohn- there was just so much to say, and Arnold has an engaging way of saying it, he is a natural storyteller. I leaned in and listened; glad my phone was recording so that I could return to listen again and again when Jerusalem was far behind me.

Malki Roth

MALKI. So much love, so much joy and so much pain wrapped up in the mention of her name. Here was Arnold the father, proudly describing his beautiful, sensitive, caring, little girl, taken so cruelly on the cusp of her future. I learned of Malki’s great love for her younger sister Haya, severely disabled, and in need of continual care. Malki was the devoted, attentive older sister, the champion of those less able at school, determined to help, she built bridges between disabled children and ‘regular’ kids. Malki, who wondered why there were so few photo’s of her taken compared to her siblings, Malki, whose smile shines out from a photograph Arnold found on an undeveloped reel of film years after she was gone. Every word spoken about his daughter was immersed in longing and love. A father’s heart.

That Malki’s should be murdered in Jerusalem, the place of refuge in her grandmother’s desperate dreams, and because she was Jewish, makes an unbearable tale of loss somehow even more profoundly devastating. I wondered how a world that remembers the holocaust, reminding us to ‘never forget’ could fail to care about the children and grandchildren of survivors, who had so valiantly continued living. Six million Jews perished in the Shoah, each with their own name, their heartaches, their achievements, their joys. The numbers are so overwhelming it is impossible to grasp the magnitude of each loss; and yet, we can learn of one or two, or six or seven of those names and recover their humanity.

“Malki, our Rock of Gibraltar. Attentive, listening, always with a smile on her face, always engaged in fun. Fun that stems from empathy. Empathy from wall to wall. She was the most empathetic person I’ve ever met… I want you to know about her life. ”

— Arnold Roth

Malki Roth is numbered amongst thousands murdered in the ‘new Shoah’ - Jewish people murdered in Israel. For decades after WW2, those who wilfully murdered Jews were pursued for justice, and yet today, amongst us, Malki’s murderer, on the FBI most wanted list, a self-confessed and proud child killer is allowed to walk free. How can this be?

I decided to write this today because my heart hurts for a family, who have not only to bear the pain of a life lived without their daughter, who had to face the horror of learning she had been murdered, who have had to carry the knowledge of those details every waking moment, who battle alone- forgotten, for justice for their child and safety for others .. What can we do- what can I do?, I ask myself. I’m not sure I have the answer to that, but one thing I do know. I will stand with them, pray for justice and speak up for Malki. Life is a gift, each one unique. As the parent of another murdered Jewish child expressed so profoundly “Jewish tradition says that in each person is a world. I have lost a whole world.” - Sherri Mandell

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https://www.timesofisrael.com/failed-by-israel-malki-roths-parents-hope-us-can-extradite-her-gloating-killer/

Read Arnold and Frimet’s blog, This Ongoing War @ http://thisongoingwar.blogspot.com/

The Malki Foundation, set up by Arnold and Frimet to help children with disabilities in Malki’s memory: https://kerenmalki.org/

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“Jewish tradition says that in each person is a world. I have lost a whole world. ”

— Sherri Mandell

Quarantined MA. Writing an essay in lockdown

Essay Writing

the challenges of lockdown

One of the biggest challenges I have faced during lockdown is trying to engage fully with writing a reflective essay for submission during the first week of May. I thought it would be no problem! RGU kindly gave us a two-week extension (from April 24th), it’s a relatively short piece of writing (2500 words), and – I mean- what could be difficult??

Of course I hadn’t factored in how many times one of the 5 others lockdown with me might get bored, need advice, want a bag of crisps (yes) have a complaint, need to offload, want to question me on any topic stretching from ‘what time is tea?’ challenge me on some deep obscure theological rumination, (BRIAN) ask ‘ what country has the lowest birth rate?’…and cover every subject in between. Add to this urgent (and non-urgent) WhatsApp calls, zoom calls, skype calls and just plain old phone calls happening approximately every 50 mins from 7 am-10:30 pm

I can lock my door! I had thought originally. I had outsmarted them! I had come into lockdown prepared, managing to obtain an antique roll top desk (which was kindly delivered by the previous owners on the first morning of the new normal- thank you Anna and Lori! ). This was placed in a space I prepared the weekend before; I could sit and look out of the window while I studied, feel the sun on my face and watch the birds in the garden... I was so impressed with myself, I even looked forward to it.

This illusion came crashing down after ignoring persistent knocking on the door transitioned into banging on the window. I gave up!

Jokes aside, these are the small challenges of being confined to quarters. They may require time, patience, and humour, but my essay got written. I just needed to set my mind to it and focus, and eventually I enjoyed the process. Maybe it was the fear of not being able to achieve my goal which sucked out any creativity.

These are days in which we have to create new ways of processing, find inspiration in the things around us, rather than by hopping in the car and taking a journey, or going for a cup of coffee with a friend. Not all days are going to be productive, and that’s OK. The small things count. On many of the interruption occasions that I found frustrating, I have found myself laughing, enjoying the moment or having an important conversation that has allowed my heart to open a bit more. I will never forget this time with my family. Above all else I have been gifted time to engage with what is of most value. Relationships.

I think my reflective essay reflects that.

Favourite Photographers (part one)

Over the past 5 years, I have been inspired and influenced by many photographers, but I do have my favorites! I thought I would begin a short blog series to share some of them with you.

Harry Borden

Anyone who knows my journey as a photographer will know I love the work of Harry Borden, particularly in his book ‘Survivor’, published on Holocaust Memorial Day 2017.

Little did I know as a read a review on Survivor, whilst traveling home after my first London trip to photograph my grandmother’s neighbor, that the following year I would be on the way BACK to London to meet Adam and Alicia Melamed Adams, both featured in Harry’s book- and with Harry Borden’s advice on my mind; ‘don’t pretend to be someone you are not with skills you don’t have. Just be yourself. you’ve got this.’ He was incredibly helpful, taking the time to speak over the phone from his home in Devon, a county we also shared significant connections with.

Moshe Shamir. © Harry Borden 2017

Mayer Braitberg © Harry Borden 2017

Borden’s images stand out for their interesting aesthetic and simple beauty. I would love to emulate his style, but have been on a journey where I have learned to trust my own approach, reflecting the relationship I build with those I photograph. His work still inspires me however; I am endeavoring to step back from close-cropped studies of a face and take in the environment. ..something I aim to do more and more. I am drawn to faces, I love people and wish to invite the viewer to make eye contact through my portraits, but there is something about including the surroundings in which they are framed.

If you wish to look at more of Harry Bordens work, please visit his website;

https://harryborden.co.uk/about-harry/

Adam Adams © Harry Borden 2017

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Jon Nicholson

Another photographer who has helped me personally is Jon Nicholson. Famous for his work with Formula One, (especially Damon Hill), and coverage of the war in Darfur, amongst many other projects he has undertaken, I first encountered Jon at a talk he gave whilst I was studying for an HND at Nescol in Aberdeen.  I was blown away by his work and drawn by the moving way he described it; especially the tales of the women he photographed in Dafur. I think, from that point on I decided to aim higher, to consider it might just be possible to become involved in photography that took risks to enable the stories of others to be heard.

Ayrton Senna, Imola 1994 by Jon Nicholson

Linford Christie © Jon Nicholson

I met Jon again for breakfast at the café in Gray’s School of Art in 2017 whilst I was still studying at college and about to embark on my project ‘Fragments that Remain’. We spoke for ages, sharing backgrounds and histories, he was so encouraging. We discussed ways to photograph abandonment and loss, and he urged me to go back to the beginning and record the places that mattered in my family story.  I took Jon’s advice, and sought him out again and again whilst preparing to make the trip to Israel to photograph victims of terrorism. He was always so helpful. In the end, I digressed from some of his advice; it simply wasn’t possible for me to take the time to plan and execute the shoots in the way he suggested, but his words to ‘remember you are a photographer first, save the emotion and cry on the plane’ stayed with me along with many other things.

The feet that walked to freedom. Darfur 2007 © Jon Nicholson

Jon gave me hard-learned and valuable professional advice; having covered the absolute worst of human suffering, he considers getting a photograph to the world paramount, and his feelings come second. I admire Jon greatly; he has great sensitivity to his subjects, he is funny and brilliant at his craft.

I did not cry on the plane. A few times I shared the tears of the parent who was sitting for me, but I pushed everything down inside, unable to cry until many months later when I finally brought myself to re-listen to the stories in order to type them up. It was hard then to stop them and focus on the job at hand. I think I cry even more now, 18 months after I met with the survivors. They each made their way into my heart, and in many cases we have stayed in touch, their stories remaining with me and becoming a part of my own.

I will always be very grateful to Jon, for his time, excellent technical advice, for firing my imagination, and encouraging me to go for the projects I had conceived.

To view Jon’s work, please visit his website:

https://www.jonnicholson.co.uk/

Jon in Sri Lanka using his Hasselblad 503 ©Jon Nicholson

Like a Vapour

“ whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”

— James 4:14

through the mist

I got up at 5:30 one morning recently so that I could walk and clear my head before sitting down to study. It was a beautiful, foggy morning and I was alone with my dog Jake. As we went down to the beach near my home, a figure walking his 3 dogs materialized through the mist. I had been completely unaware of his presence, but it was nice to know someone was walking through this fog too. I haven’t seen anyone in person other than my lockdown family for weeks- unless you include the strange supermarket trips where everyone hurries to get out as fast as possible and we are afraid of contact with each other.

The mist provided a kind of ethereal barrier, the lone figure and I did not approach one another but a muffled hello echoed through the haze; surprisingly, even the dogs kept close to their masters. I think this image speaks to the situation we all find ourselves in. The familiar still surrounds us but is veiled; we can only see the way directly in front of us, literally the day ahead.  The physical space outside is emptied of people…and yet, we connect from a distance with someone appearing as if out of a mist. Life is out there!

The sun is rising however, like a vapour the haze will vanish in its heat, if not today, or tomorrow, then another day soon. We dwell in a world of seasons, it can never be continual summer, just as surely as winter must yield to spring.

Family Remembering Family..

Holocaust Remembrance Day 2020

“If we held a moment of silence for every victim of the Holocaust we would be silent for eleven and a half years.”

This evening, April 20th 2020, marks the start of Holocaust Remembrance Day or 'Yom HaShoah'.

In that devastating catastrophe that decimated the European Jewish community during the Second World War, my grandmother lost most of her family. The only family names my mother knew were her father's, her mother's first name; 'Helena,' and mums own descendants.

Separated from Helena shortly after her birth in 1943, mum didn't meet my grandmother again until the mid 60's. Following this reunion, she wrote poignantly 'My mother's sister, somewhere in Canada. The rest all murdered, or so I believe'

Over the past 5 years, Helena's sister, Irena's descendants, have been traced, living in the USA, and we have recovered some of the names of family members who perished in the Holocaust. We have come together, as a family to read their names. We will remember each of them.

Included in this remembrance is Holocaust survivor, Adam Adams (Izrael Melamed). Adam reads the names of his beloved parents and sisters. Whilst we read names to which we have no faces, Adam remembers; he alone survived.

In this strange time of lockdown, let us remember those who had no hope, who were isolated, starved, hidden, hunted down and murdered, and let us stand with those incredible survivors who after losing everything, continued in life and gave hope to the next generations.

#RememberingFromHome #ShoahNames #FragmentsThatRemain #YadVashem

Mother's Love

Rose Toms with the child she rescued, Elizabeth Lis.

Mother’s Day 2014

Generations. History has always interested me. The real people whose lives and often whose sacrifice directly affects the next generation. How quickly their stories are forgotten with the rapid passage of time, how great our debt.

On the left is a lady named Rose Toms. She was an orphan and knew no family life as a child. As a young woman she trained at Great Ormand Street Hospital. She set up babies home with a friend and cared for babies who were delicate or in need.

In war-torn London in 1943 a baby girl was born to a Polish refugee who had already lost her two young sons in a Siberian labour camp. She was determined to fight for her country's freedom and so took her newborn daughter to Rose Toms' home to be cared for. She never returned and Rose raised the baby alone. Elizabeth Lis is in the right of the photo, and was my mother.

Behind every picture lies a story.
Happy Mother’s day to all those women, past and present, who greatly influenced the lives of children they never bore, for the good. You have helped shape history.

I first posted this on Mother’s day 2014, weeks after my mum had died, and before I had traced her birth mother learning the story behind her sacrifice. It turned out Elizabeth was her mother’s only child, surrendered to another so that she could continue to fight in the Polish Army. My life has been shaped by these 3 women, directly and indirectly. Whose lives am I shaping?

“I didn’t just give her away, I risked my happiness for her life.”

— Janel Indingaro

The Space Between

Driving into the unknown

the beginning of an ending?

“We are inhabiting the space between; leaving the familiar and entering the unfamiliar, yet not fully in either place”

I drove home from Uni today under a brooding grey-blue sky, wondering when I will be back. Finally, I had been able to meet with my personal tutor and we shared a coffee and sandwich- aware that we had to sit a bit further apart than we normally would; conscious that everything around us was changing globally and yet a lot still seemed the same. We are inhabiting the space between; leaving the familiar and entering the unfamiliar, yet not fully in either place. All the plans we discussed seemed to hang in the air; a visit to the museums in Edinburgh, ideas to meet curators, the chance to really begin to work together after finally connecting - would any of it be possible?

I made my way back to my desk, stopping to wash my hands on the way. The studio was silent, empty save for my lovely friend Maxim. Should I pack up everything and take it home? I need my workbooks but for some reason decided to leave two of my favourite photography books on my desk; a kind of silent pledge to return, I did not want to extinguish the hope that in the next few weeks we can return to normal; maybe be the anticipated lockdown will not happen….maybe I am dreaming.

Maybe I am not.

I tend to document life- the things that seem mundane, the overlooked in the rush to life, to work, to live, to create. I photograph those moments that are part of the process, those people around me, my MA peers. I am glad in this moment I have recorded instants during group crits, captured the colour and chaos of the fine art studio and the organization and order of com des. I offered to take a picture of Maxim by her work, unable to comprehend that the beautiful space she has created may be inaccessible soon. How is that possible? I walk through the studio spaces, inhabited by such variety with an undefined sadness, capturing the life that has been and I hope will continue.

Beautiful Maxim

“Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God ”

— Corrie Ten Boom

The drive home feels surreal, I sense an ending and a new beginning; neither is welcome but I don't fight it. I think of the words my cousin wrote on the eve of WW2. - he experienced a strange kind of excitement, completely unaware of what would come, how his life would change forever. It must have felt a little like this. We didn’t think in our day, in our lifetime our lives could be suddenly interrupted, that we would have no control. Why are we different than any other generation? I am driving home to safety. As I reach Fraserburgh the sun is setting; the sky is a beautiful painting of purples and pinks. I love this light.

I stop by the beach to take a photo; I have reached the path to the great unknown.

I stop by the beach to take a photo; I have reached the path to the great unknown.

Passport to the past

March 6th 2020

I received the most incredible gift on Wednesday this week from my lovely cousin Renata - my grandmother's wartime Passport which enabled her to flee occupied Europe. Looking at the stamps, different Visa's and border crossings I am finally able to work out some of her route. One particular Nazi stamp, giving her permission to cross the Reich, left me cold. How must she have felt, waiting at Arnoldstein on the Austrian border for a German soldier to give her permission to cross?

My grandmother, Helena Lis, lost many of her family during the Holocaust, including her brother Henryk, who never made it out. I feel a tremendous sense pride and admiration that this diminutive woman, who had never had to 'do for herself' as she explained to my mother, found the courage to face the terror and complete the journey, arriving in the UK in July 1940. Of course, the alternative, staying in Poland, would have almost certainly meant death.

Her story didn’t end there.. after joining the Polish Army under British command and giving up her only child to continue to fight, Helena suffered further devastating losses, never shaking the fear she experienced whilst in occupied Europe, which continued until her death, alone in a Nursing home, at the age of 98 in 2000. Following WW2 she became terrified of being 'found by the Russians' sadly living in fear of betrayal by her own Polish community. Who could she trust? The devastation of war continues long after it ceases.

Following her death, her passport and ID papers were sent to her beloved nephew James in the USA, and given to me by his daughters. ..I am now honoured custodian of this incredible piece of history, without which none of Helena's descendants may exist. Its hard to decribe how it feels to hold so much history in my hands..Thank you, Renata!

My grandmother’s wartime Passport which literally saved her life and enabled ours

Final day for Fraserburgh Exhibition

Today is the final day of my exhibition 'Fragments That Remain' at the Fraserburgh Heritage Centre. What a fantastic 8 months its been!

15 months ago I was approached in Weatherspoons by a member of the Heritage Centre staff and asked if I was the lady who had been telling the Polish stories. An invitation to use the temporary space at the end of the museum building followed and in January 2019 I began to put it all together.

Pre Opening Night. March 2019

Its been exciting- this is my first solo exhibition, and at times the response by participants has been very emotional. I've met some wonderful people, some of whom traveled hours to visit- all keen to remember their parents and grandparents courage and sacrifice, stating that teaching the truth regarding the Poles’ contribution to WW2 and betrayal afterward is long overdue.

I discovered that many people with no direct connection to the War in Poland had no idea that the Poles had largely been unable to return home and became exiles, often never seeing their family again. Most of the soldiers whose descendants I interviewed had been torn from their parents and driven into forced labour in Germany in their early teens, later to be conscripted into the German Army as cannon fodder. These boys were then captured and brought to the UK as POWs before being given the chance to fight in the Polish Army under British command, an opportunity they welcomed.

Polish Soldiers at Inverallochy Airfield. Photo courtesy of the Dyga Family

After the war, stateless and displaced, some of these soldiers fell in love and married girls from ‘the Broch’ where they had been laterally posted. They settled down and raised families, worked hard and buried the pain of their past, giving very little indication of the horrors they had endured. Their children and grandchildren spoke of them with deep pride and affection- but sorrow for their ancestor’s hidden heartache remained close to the surface.

This scenario is repeated thousands of times throughout Britain and other places in the world.

Also included in the Exhibition are the stories of Holocaust survivors, Adam and Alicia Melamed Adam, both of whom lost their entire families in the Shoah. They have a direct connection to my grandmother’s family and have become very dear to me.

Teresa Somkowicz also features long with her daughter, Kika. I traced Teresa from an old photograph with my grandmother I had been sent from Poland in 2015. Teresa was born Princess Teresa Świdrygiełło-Świderska-Wągl , but was sent in a cattle train to Khazakstan with her mother and sister when she was just 10 years old, enduring -40% temperatures.

This Exhibition was intended to highlight the courage and sacrifice of the millions affected as a result of WW2 in Poland- we must never forget. Their voices may be silenced, their memory confined to history but it is time to allow their lives to speak.

I hope to continue to share their stories, through exhibitions and presentations and am currently planning a fresh Exhibition at the Sir Ian Wood Building, Robert Gordon University in February next year.

As I left the Heritage Centre this afternoon, for the last open day, a shed a tear. Thank you to all who have been involved and have helped in any way.

Special thanks to the Fraserburgh Heritage Centre for making this possible, The Polish Consul General in Edinburgh for funding and Grays School of Art for support.

I owe a huge debt to Polish Historians Janusz Ral and Robert Ostrycharz whose expert help and dedication made all the difference.

Also thanks to Magdelina Konieczna for translating several panels to Polish.

This video is for all my lovely descendants' families, for their fathers and others whose lives were forever changed because of the war.

Colours of Autumn

“Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.

”

— Lauren DeStefano

There is something about autumn. There is such beauty in creation’s last burst of reds and golds before transitioning to the dull palette of winter.

I am beginning a new journey alone; for the past 3 autumn beginnings I have shared the company of friends as we got our heads around the the demands of gratuating to another level. I am glad I have the familiarity of gorgeous grounds; Gray’s School of Art may be pushed to the very end of the University’s spralling campus, but the best is saved for last.

I have no idea how this year will change or shape me- at this point I am unsure where to begin, but there is comfort in the knowledge that each season holds its own beauty, one drawing from another in a cycle where nothing is wasted.

Begining again..

Living Life Backwards

in order to live forwards

Its been way too long since I last wrote a proper blog, its not that Ive been short of things to write about- quite the opposite… more that Ive had so many things going on, I just couldnt bring myself to master another (albeit simple) skill! My fears were realized today as I finally decided to bite the bullet, and wrote a great (tongue in cheek) blog and then clicked the computer back button by accident without saving first! Such a simple but frustrating mistake and not isolated in my experience! When will I learn to save as I go along!

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

Soren Kierkegaard”

So here goes again…

Over the last year, whilst studying for my Undergraduate Degree I pretty much lived life at 100 miles an hour; maybe that is true of me in general. From a very small girl I always ran from place to place rather than walked- I didnt want to waste time, and there seemed just so many important things to do. These days I sadly no longer possess the same physical speed but I really do try and use my time intentionally- after all, time is the only thing we have which cannot be recovered, and I want mine to count.

Juggling studying, children, running a household, and maintaining all my projects takes discipline and careful management and last year in particular, with submission deadlines and time abroad , this was particularly challenging. I loved it all, but was unable to really breathe deeply and process the incredible experiences I found myself involved in; how, for example did I find myself sitting across from parents in Israel, recording the devastating loss of their child in a terror attack?.. what motivated me to collect stories from descendants of exiled Polish soldiers, and place them in an exhibition which 5 and a half months from its opening is gaining momentum? These were outstanding moments to be a part of and I am certain there is great value in taking the time to really stop and consider the impact this not only had on me, but can have on others. I want to make a difference.

Now I have returned to study for an MA I am finding that before I move forward, I have to look back. Please join me as I do so - a blog seems a good place to start.

Photo©Destiny Milne

A Quiet Hero

It felt good today to be shooting portraits again and documenting another incredible story. We really have so much to learn from each other and rarely know the pain someone may have experienced.

Margaret Kennedy, a sprightly widow from Fraserburgh, married to a Polish soldier, Stefan Klinkosz in April 1953. Margaret invited me to her home to record his story after learning about the work I had been doing with descendants of Polish soldiers in the town. I had been really looking forward to this visit and was welcomed warmly with a lovely cup of tea and an assortment of chocolate biscuits.

I learned Stefan had been forcibly taken from his family at 14 to work as forced labour in Germany. His father was allowed to visit him once while he was there, but he never saw his mother or homeland again. One of 10 children, 3 of whom perished in an epidemic that swept the European continent post WW1, the Klinkosz family originated from Gdansk, Pomerania; known as the Polish corridor.

Young Stefan saw action at the front line, sustaining a shrapnel wound to his ankle, but rarely spoke of the war years. At some point he was captured by the American’s and brought to the United Kingdom, where he was able to join the Polish Forces under British Command, training as a Paratrooper.

Unable to return to his country at the end of the war, he married his Scottish lassie in Rosehearty, and together the couple raised a family of two girls and a boy. When I asked Margaret how Stefan Klinkosz became Stevie Kennedy, she told me he had pulled out a British Phone book and looked through the K’s, settling on ‘Kennedy’. Stevie’s friend Henryk Dabrowski did the same, searching through the D’s before adopting the surname ‘Davidson’. The men wanted to avoid the trouble a Polish surname may bring on them; some people were not welcoming of exiled Poles after the war. and they felt a British surname would make life easier for their children.

Stevie was a quiet hero, refusing to teach his children Polish so that they would be assimilated. He was smart and sensible and provided security and stability for his family, although he struggled with change. When he sadly passed away, Stevie and Margaret had been married for almost 58 years.

Margaret Kennedy

Margaret showed me an array of old photographs, pointing out other Polish soldiers who had settled her. Amazingly she still has Stevie’s dog tag, stamped with the name KLINKOSZ, for identification on the battlefield. As we reached back in history in the bright, friendly surroundings of Margaret’s home, I felt privileged to make this connection, record Stefan’s story, and listen to his lovely widow. She pressed a bag of homegrown apples into my hand as I left, making me promise I would return. One of the very best things about the work I have been doing is the relationships I have built along the way, the invitation into someone’s life is something I will never take for granted. Neither, after hearing Stefan’s story, and that of so many others, is the freedom they bought at such great cost.

Retracing footsteps

‘To be rooted is perhaps the most important, and least recognized need of the human soul’

(The Need for Roots ~ Simone Weil)

I have recently returned from a trip to Warsaw, Poland, at which I presented a talk on the search for my mothers family at the 38th International Jewish Genealogy Conference. I intended to blog whilst I was there but was unable to find the time. I hope to retrace my steps in a series of posts. I may be unable to recapture the intensity of emotion I felt whilst I was immersed in the experience, but since I have returned home my thoughts have been reflective. This has enabled me to begin to process the overwhelming sense of sorrow, joy, and connection I experienced during my 8 day stay- emotion which at the time I did not have the words to express. As they say in Scotland 'Somethings are better felt than telt'.

For those of you who are not familiar with my story and subsequent search, this blog will offer some background. For those of you who are, or who have been part of my journey - please bear with me!

I am a mum of 9. That fact alone lends itself to blog posts to infinity! In this post, I add that information to give you an understanding of my background. I grew up in a very turbulent and  troubled home, and lacked a connection with my mother. My gentle father died tragically when I was 10 years old. My childhood, and that of my siblings was marked by uncertainty and loss. 

I grew up with the knowledge that my mother, born in London in 1943, had been 'left' in a war time babies home in Hope Cove, Devon, when she was less than 2 weeks old, whilst her Polish mother continued to fight in the Polish Army under British Command. The promise her mother made to collect her after the war ended never materialized, and in my mum's words "I was left like a lost luggage parcel'. The babies home was run by Nurse Rose Toms - herself an orphan. She eventually chose to raise my mother as her own child. 

Looking back..

Despite being provided with a stable and loving home, my mother never felt she fitted in. She told me a few months before her untimely death in 2014 that she didn't feel she belonged anywhere. She had no roots, no context to her existence, no relatives to compare herself with or enable her to understand her strong will and restless personality.  All of these factors affected her ability to connect with the large family she created for herself.

My childhood and subsequent adult life was marked by the desire to understand my mother - and myself in relation to her. At times I did not want to belong, I was unsure how to love her, and our relationship came to be the one which defined the way I conducted all others. She shaped me for better or worse. 

Shortly before my mum died, I encouraged her to write down every detail about her background she possessed. I wanted to find her family for her. Sadly however, she became very ill and died before I had begun to search. Standing before her coffin, I realized that although I knew her better than perhaps I knew anyone else, I did not know her at all. It was this absence of knowledge that prompted me to uncover the truth. 

5 short months later, on my birthday,  I found myself in a cafe in Glasgow with renowned Jewish genealogist Michael Tobias and his lovely wife Jane. As a result of my digging, Michael had located my grandmothers records in the Jewish registry books from Stryj, Poland (now in Ukraine). I was Jewish. 

Since that day I have managed to uncover a wealth of information concerning both my grandparents. My Polish catholic grandfather had been a member of the Polish Government before the war, and a member of the government in exile in London following the war. My grandmother originated from a wealthy Jewish family in a place called Drohobych. Her maiden name had been Malie Rothenberg, although she changed names and identities so frequently that a glance at the death certificate for Baroness Helena Konopka would never have identified her.

Over the 4 years I have traced 3 generations of living 2nd cousins  and met 2 of them. My grandmothers 2nd cousin, Rina, my mothers 2nd cousin Alan, and my own 2nd cousins, Sandy and Renata. For me genealogy is a living thing. It provides a connection to history and heritage, roots and relationship. I have always regarded relationships with people to be the most important thing in life. 

So there is a little background. Never did I conceive that 4 short years after I met Michael and Jane Tobias, I would accompany them to Warsaw to speak of my discoveries...especially Warsaw - the most significant and poignant of all places. My grandparents lived in the city and fled in 1939, never to return.

This blog is attached to my photography website. The search I have undertaken has fueled my creativity and desire to connect with others with similar backgrounds and history, leading me to produce documentary work around the themes of memory, heritage, identity and displacement. 

Please feel free to engage with me, ask questions, give insights. ..and follow me so that you may join me as I process and relate this journey- the story of a family shaped by circumstances beyond their control, by hardship and loss - and yet by their desire to rise above and to live. Is that not the human story? 

To be continued...