Not Without a Fight!

There's a poem I like to read every now and again. It's called A Passer-by and a Poplar. It was written by a Serbian poet Vasko Popa in 1981. I don't know if it's translated into English, I couldn't find it on the net. The poem is about a row of poplars on a city road which is about to be widened, so the poplars have to go. They are cut down by bulldozers, all except one. That one decided not to cooperate, it wouldn't let the bulldozer kill it without fighting first. People have gathered to watch. One of them, an elderly gentleman, removes his hat to the tree, he raises his umberlla, shouting: "Don't give up, my soul!" 

I painted a series of paintings with this poem in my mind, four to be precise. They didn't turn out the way they should, so I stopped. Now, two years after, I decided they will have to go. They silently await execution, all three of them except the last one. It wouldn't let me discard it without a fight first. The last one represents breaking branches, little pieces of wood are suspended in the air, thick with the smell of wood and pain. The branches are made of a collage of pieces of paper with the poem printed on them, and sand. Only the colour is wrong ... or perhaps it isn't. Red might as well be the colour of blood. I can hear the painting whispering to me when I'm not watching, and I'm going to listen. It is not going to be the last one in a series, but the first.

I once brought an abstract painting with a tree among the flames of red to the art class. I based it on another poem, more apocalyptic, more nuclear-explosion-like. My professor looked at it for some time and said something like: "It's as if it wants to escape. You know, trees in your paintings might in fact be people. Think about it."

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Prolaznik i topola

Proširuju ulicu
Preopterećenu saobraćajem
Seku topole
Buldožeri uzimaju zalet
I jednim jedinim udarcem
Obaraju drveće
Jedna se topola samo zatresla
Odolela je gvožđu
Buldožer se od nje odmiče
Bučno unatraške
Priprema se za poslednji juriš
Među okupljenim prolaznicima
Stoji i jedan postariji čovek
Skida šešir pred topolom
Maše joj kišobranom
I viče iz sveg grla
Ne daj se dušo

Vasko Popa 

Od časa do časa rada preberem pesem Vaska Pope o mimoidočem in topolu. Še posebej me zadane tisti del, ko starejši gospod pred drevesom dvigne klobuk in z dvignjenim dežnikom v roki vpije: "Ne daj se dušo!"

Pred leti sem naslikala serijo slik s to pesmijo v mislih. No, pravzaprav so bile štiri. Na koncu sem videla, da to ni to in sem jih pospravila, da bi počakale na boljše čase. Že nekaj časa razmišljam o tem, da bi jih reciklirala, kupila sem platno, ki ga bo samo treba napeti na podokvirje. Slike torej čakajo eksekucijo, vse razen ene. Zadnja se upira, ne pusti se ubiti brez boja. Predstavlja lomljenje vej, koščki lesa lebdijo v zraku, ki je nasičen z vonjem lesa in bolečine. Veje so kolaž papirčkov, na katere je natisnjena pesem. Le, da je barva napačna ... ali pa niti ni. Rdeča je čisto lahko barva krvi. Slišim sliko, kako mi šepeta, ko ne gledam. Odločila sem se, a jo bom poslušala. Tokrat ne bo zadnja v seriji, ampak prva. 

Nekoč sem v atelje prinesla abstraktno sliko dreves med plameni rdeče. Podlaga zanjo je bila v drugi pesmi, bolj apokaliptični, bolj podobni nuklearni eksploziji. Profesor jo je nekaj časa opazoval, potem pa rekel nekaj kot: "Kot, da bi hotelo pobegniti. Veš, drevesa v tvojih slikah bi čisto lahko bila ljudje. Razmisli o tem."