Shortly before an anniversary of the death of Mother Teresa, I felt compelled to write this long overdue
little essay, with all its miraculous twists and turns, as a remembrance to her.
MOTHER TERESA
Written: 2nd September 2007
In 1970, after completing my high school
education, I enrolled as a student in the Department of Architecture, at the University of Pretoria. Although I was a dedicated
student, I decided to switch courses and after an additional 4 years of study, eventually
received my degree in Fine Arts.
As an enthusiastic little child-artist, I
would carefully dip my old fashioned nib-pen into the glass bottle, filled with
India ink and proceed with my first messy attempts at rendering pen drawings of
flowers or figures. However, my childhood interest in this graphic medium was
immediately rekindled when, as an eager student of architecture, I became
acquainted with and mesmerized by the range of possibilities of the professional
Rotring pens, capable of producing drawings that boasted delicate and ghostlike
lines, resulting from the emanations of a 0.1 pen point!
Although these lines were spider web-like
and ultra-delicate, the contrast of the black ink on the white paper was immediate
and harsh and thus perfectly suited for architectural and character studies.
For several years I had been aware of and
increasingly inspired by, the selfless dedication of Mother Teresa. Whenever
photographs of her appeared in newspapers or magazines, they would invariably
illicit an immediate and powerful, emotional response in me. Therefore, it was
inevitable that an image of her, protectively holding and pressing an emaciated
child against her own fragile little body, would act as inspiration and catalyst,
for me to lovingly and laboriously, eventually put pen to paper, in 1972.
I’ve long ago come to terms with the fact
that I could be labelled a Paradox Junkie. The flowing, white robes swaddling
Mother Teresa, beautifully contrasts with the leathery, black skin of the half-clothed
child she is holding in her arms. From her cave-like, imploring eyes, the
hypnotic expression hovers between that of accusation and that of begging and
reflects the harsh reality of our fragile humanity. Life and death continue to
remain unlikely neighbors as her parted lips silently utter and express the
whispers, cries and vulnerability of the suffering soul, that heroically and
defiantly shines through the dying child’s as well as her, eyes.
There are lengthy periods of careful
consideration whilst using this medium to construct one’s subject matter. First
of all, there is the tentative outline which is then followed by the meticulous
and time consuming build-up of countless layers of rapid crosshatching. This
technique acts as metaphor for the development and process of one’s life.
Mistakes cannot be corrected and it is only by repeating several layers of
seemingly insignificant effort, that a powerful and visible end result is
achieved.
Since the earliest times, it has been
rumored that artists capture a portion of the essence of their subject when
copying their likeness. Could this possibly
account for the fact that I am so deeply contented to my subject once I’ve completed a work
of art? It stands to reason then, that I am not available to do portrait studies of narcissistic socialites.
In 1985 I set about organizing a group exhibition
in my gallery with the following theme: ‘A World Beyond our Vision’. The
well-known and beloved Reverend Johann Symington,
was the opening speaker and my image of Mother Teresa, adorned the invitations.
I requested the printer to increase the run but to omit the text so that I
would have a stockpile of blank cards with only her image on the cover.
Then, after more than 2 decades, Mother
Teresa visited South Africa.
My husband, who is a medical doctor,
regularly assisted with operations at the Little Company of Mary Hospital
situated in Groenkloof, Pretoria.
Trying but failing to suppress her excitement, Sister Mary informed him that
Mother Teresa would shortly be visiting the hospital and that they were busily
preparing for her imminent arrival.
I was exhilarated on hearing the news and
the prospect of a personal meeting with my ‘inspiration’.
However, due to unforeseen circumstances
and to my utter dismay, I was unable to attend the function in honor of Mother
Teresa.
I
simply had to find some small way in which I could still feel connected to the
momentous event. Out out of desperation, on the morning of her visit, I
begged my husband to pass by the hospital and ask Sister Mary to hand out a stack of the
cards bearing her image, which I had hastily given him, as a memento of the day, to the fortunate guests
attending..
We were well acquainted with the
Administrator of Transvaal, Danie Hough and
his wife Mignon. A few days later, I once again, through circumstances beyond
my control, missed the second opportunity to meet Mother Teresa when the couple
officially escorted her on the last leg of her visit to South Africa and spent some time talking to her
in the VIP lounge of Jan
Smuts Airport,
shortly before her departure.
However, several days passed and I was
still mourning the disappointment of both ‘non’-events when my husband had to
visit the hospital again and he was approached by Sister Mary. She said:
‘Doctor, I have something for your wife’, and she handed him an envelope containing
one of my cards. She explained: ‘When Mother Teresa saw the cards at the
gathering, she inquired as to whom the artist was that had drawn her portrait so lovingly.
I informed her that it was one of the doctor’s wives but that she was
deeply distressed at being unable to attend Mother Teresa's morning's visit to the hospital.
On hearing this she asked for a pen as well as one
of the cards and wrote down the following message on the inside:
GOD BLESS YOU
Mother Teresa
'Please give this to her", she said.
Only a few days after this turn in events,
Danie Hough also paid us a visit and said that ‘he had something for me….’
whereby he handed me an envelope containing a photograph. This photograph
depicted an image of Mother Teresa, himself and Mignon, seated in the VIP
lounge and in deep discussion.
On the photograph Danie Hough had written
the following: ‘Aleta, dit sou ‘n wonderlike ervaring gewees het om jou ook
daar te kon gehad het. Danie.’ (Aleta, it would have been a wonderful experience,
if you had also been present with us. Danie)
Although it was not my destiny to be
physically present at both these rare opportunities that were seemingly within
my reach, I have been given priceless mementos which I lovingly treasure.
10 years ago, the deaths of Diana and
Mother Teresa within a week of each other, came as a paradoxical double shock to
the world. I signed both books of remembrance although of course, when filing
along the impossible queues and security measures, to sign one of several books
at the British High Commission in Hill Street, Pretoria and smelling the
pungent aroma of thousands of decaying bouquets stacked against the security
fences, I was not aware of the fact that as soon as the following week, I would
be signing another significant book of remembrance, just around the corner, at
the Indian High Commission.
In death, Diana was remembered as
glamorously and publicly, as she had been portrayed in life.
Sharply contrasting with my experience the
week before, I was able to park my car in front of the open Art Nouveau garden gate, which welcomed me to walk
down the cement garden path and climb the 2 steps onto the airy veranda which
completely surrounded the double story home.There were no guards in sight. The heavy wooden front door,
flanked by stained glass windows, was ajar, and without hesitation I stepped
into the familiar entrance hall of the old Victorian home. Previously this had
been the home of Dr.Colyn van Bergen where, in childhood, I had been a guest on
numerous occasions to play with my school friend, his daughter, Carin.
I was completely alone and as my eyes
became accustomed to the dimly lit interior, I was struck by the serenity,
simplicity and authenticity of the ‘display’. The glowing Rosewood panels on
the walls reflected the flickering flame of a single candle burning on a ledge
and placed next to the open book of remembrance. 2 or 3 small glass vases were
filled with blooms picked from the old rosebushes in the garden outside and
were already dropping petals onto the crocheted doilies, on which the vases
were placed.
Unhurriedly
and privately, I was able to express and compose my grief on paper.
As in life…. so in death…..
© Aleta Michaletos
aleta@aletamichaletos.com
www.aletamichaletos.com
aleta@aletamichaletos.com
www.aletamichaletos.com
