MOTHER TERESA: Miraculous Events & Treasured Memories

 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: 2^nd 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

   

'BONFIRE NIGHT' 5 NOVEMBER 2011 (LONDON)

We are driving from Royal Arsenal, Woolwich, through Greenwich and Brockley, towards Wimbledon.

On my right, towards the direction of The Thames, my eyes feast on a rare treat….an old fashioned BALLROOM! Doors, spread open widely, reveal the tempting interior…Flooded and bathed in warm, buttery light, the excess of which is flowing out and congealing on the spotted, chilly pavement.

Resembling spot-lit, brightly colored jelly babies, glaringly uncomfortable strangers (all oddly dressed–up in velvet, organza, shiny satin, lace, petticoats and tuxedos) are hoping to leave as a couple, in some distant, dismal morning.
Across the street, a macho, mustachioed guy, is dressed to kill, in a kilt. 

Drawn, like a moth, his haunted, hunters eyes, are riveted on the hypnotic inferno, brimming with promise of lustful relief and release. Nervously and excitedly, he taps a jittery, booted foot (suspended from muscular, shapely legs- perfectly encased in fishnet) on the filthy curb, whilst his solitary silver earring, reflecting the red glare of the traffic light, sways irritably.
He anxiously anticipates the ‘green light’, the ‘go-a-head’ and his desires, longing to be indulged in this hall of musical and physical delight, prods his hurried-hormone-driven ‘cross-over' of The High Street, which is celebrated by an abrupt and spectacular, kaleidoscopic cracking open and illumination of the surrounding heavens!

It is Bonfire Night…...

(Author: Aleta Michaletos, Copyright reserved  2011)

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS

LOURMARIN    
(Provence,France)

31 October 2006 

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS
‘Loss in South Africa: Doubly Robbed!

Not only does the ‘Grim Reaper’ harvest our beloved with his Scythe but we are now also prevented from mourning them at their graves.

I visit the ‘Cemetaire’ of Lourmarin, which is gently cushioned at the top of a hill, sloping down at the back. The elaborate, ancient graves nestle between low walls and ravaged cypresses.

In a peaceful little corner, low-lying branches have been cut away to expose a small forest of vertical, cylindrical stems, the canopy above, gently protecting the grave enfolded in its leafy cave.

Countless seasons have transformed tombstones into bumpy, monochromatic palettes. Various sizes of velvety dots, some flat and others the shape of chocolate truffles, merge and soften the iron and concrete homes of the dead.

White, beige, brown and charcoal-black, green and rust, gently covers the tombs of their beloved’s dust.

I have no fear, walking between Angels made of stone. Eyes cast to heaven and feathery wings, flowing hair and robes, all carved from rock…. 

Timeless horizontal posies of multi-colored porcelain flowers, bedeck the surfaces, factory fresh, without crack, chip or blemish….

Shoulders hunched, his face darkly stubbled, a widower softly shuffles past on fine gravel, thick lashes wet with tears…...

Family mausoleums, grouped together on the terraced slope below, unite the bones of generations of relations.

Not only do we not dare visit the graves of our finally lost friends and families, in life, whom we love, are scattered across the globe.

Once dead, the ritual of remembering with respect, is lost, and eventually, the memory too.

A crisp breeze ruffles the petals of bouquets of fragrant flowers and dusts away the repression of memories, enabling me to recall countless visits together with my parents, to the family grave in the Rebecca Street Cemetery.

Our floral offerings were put in vases, which were positioned on all four corners of the granite tomb.

My task was to rinse the removable ceramic or metal vases, under the tap, which nestled between the graves some distance away. The hem of my dress would offer transparent comfort, as barrier between my toddler’s hand and flaming steel carrying lukewarm water. Sacrifice it was not, as my lips, prepared in pout, would kiss the Angel sentries encountered on my way…..

 Our black Desoto desolately stood under the stringy shade of a Peppercorn tree, boot raised and filled with stacks of old newspapers and watering can. After the silent ritual of arranging the flowers, the stalks and leaves that had been trimmed off, would be neatly rolled up in the paper, scattered images proclaiming the Profumo Scandal or Sputniks to the moon. The vibrating air, cocooning the car, would sting your face with a wave of steam, as you respectfully slammed shut, the doors.

Then, the only fear I had was that of sliding into the world of death beneath the soft graveyard-ground.

 This ritual with our dead was routinely carried out, as an unquestionable part of life and my parents would be in pensive mood for some time, after these dedicated excursions of remembrance.

The hot sun was kind enough to wait until we turned the corner, before sucking the moisture from the modestly colored flowers and shriveling their tilting heads. We knew this to be true, because this image awaited us on our return.

The red and moist ground-heaps of the fresh graves, were always covered with layers of multicolored bouquets. The sun would even attempt to drink from the glass-covered, plastic wreaths, but did not succeed. This we also knew to be true since the little condensed drops would be hanging by their necks from the inside of the curved glass covers and drop onto the handwritten cards below, streaking and smudging the sad words with tears of plastic flora.

 

I feel angry and sad since today I have been reminded of what I have forgotten I’ve lost.

Aleta Michaletos 

www.aletamichaletos.com

'BIRDS & BARS- NEW YORK 2000'

'BIRDS & BARS - NEW YORK 2000'

It was October 2000 and I was on a week long, whirlwind business trip to New York and Miami before my premiere 2 month sojourn at the Cite Internationale des Arts in Paris. (Nov. & Dec. 2000)

The plan was, to go up the Empire State building in the morning and then, ‘do’ the Twin Towers in the evening.

  

Encapsulated in an authentic Art Deco elevator and rapidly ascending several levels at a gasp, I was swooning in a time-warp, imagining myself cossetted in the stilettos, furs and sequined satin numbers of several 1920’s movie sirens: Mary Pickford, Lillian Gish, Greta Garbo, Theda Bara…… one for each of the 86 floors, as the numbers lit up on the polished brass of the elevator wall….. However, on exiting at the observatory platform, the sharp air stung my skin and my attention was riveted on 3 things that had changed since my maiden visit 24 years ago.

    1) Protective fencing had been erected on top of the concrete parapet.

2)  I was staring at a mini-Trafalgar Square! Doves were flying and sitting wherever they could and it fascinated me that they were completely comfortable at such high   altitudes. Did they ever descend? Get their claws on the ground? Indeed, was there any necessity? I joked that in New York even the doves were ‘high flyers’!

3) It was my first glimpse of the Twin Towers on the horizon…

The view was breathtaking, whilst lovely ‘Casper the Friendly Ghost’- clouds, were waving at their reflections in the Hudson River below…..

 First of all, my business associate took a picture of me. Then, the Gauntlet was mine, to see what I could achieve with metal bars and birds, that were obstructing my view, whichever direction I pointed my camera at… It was a hopeless case!

Then, pushing the lens past the metal bars, I decided to focus on the Twin Towers, which became the cemetery of my composition, etched on the horizon, against the dazzling, dappled river.

The organic and moving shapes of clouds and the river snaking along the curved outline of the land, beautifully contrasted with the harsh and geometric shapes of the huddled and rigid skyscrapers.

I remarked to my associate that what I was looking at, in effect resembled a ‘giant cemetery’…

The silvery, circular outline of a cloud that tried to imitate a saint’s halo, or a wreath, silently drifted in the pale blue sky……..

Highly satisfied with the angle and image I had in my viewfinder, I was about to press the release button, when my view was blurred! In shock, I jerked back my head and a few centimeters from my hand, casually perched on the parapet, was a majestic dove……serenely ruffling and vibrating it’s feathers, with no intention of taking flight……

Now that I had found my perfect angle, powerful gusts of wind were tugging at the hem of my skirt and sweeping strands of hair across my face. The solitary cloud was now moving in an animated way and I was anxious to get a move on too…….

In a situation such as this, where rapid decisions have to be made, there is an unexpected 3^rd force that forces you to compensate.

There and then, I made a decision to ‘make peace’ with the dove and incorporate its blurry image into my shot.

As my finger tentatively and hardly audible, pushed down on the trigger, the dove moved ever so slightly and I gently re-positioned myself, trying not to startle it, or lose the perfection of my angle. Just then, the dove’s head slid underneath the Twin Towers and accepted it as its crown! My immediate reaction and the noisy mechanical action, sent a stream of dove perfume up my nostrils, as it spread its wings and noisily flapped towards the ground!  

 The afternoon was spent lazing away in a Gelateria in Brooklyn.  Egalitarian parents were gallantly pushing padded strollers, their squealing, chubby, fashionably dressed babies, licking and dripping over-sized ice creams, on a cone. I was sinking into a slow-motion ‘My Fair Lady’ fantasy…….

Abruptly my senses revived and trained as a typically alert South African female, it was impossible to ignore the fact, that although there was no grass to be seen, the possibility existed that not with standing there may be a snake on the pavement! It was with concern that I remarked: ‘These Americans are in a dream world, so confident and so relaxed, they would be oblivious, even if a plane passed overhead at this very moment and dropped its deadly cargo…..’

As planned, we reserved the evening for our visit to the Twin Towers, steeling ourselves against the currents of icy winds, in the desolate banking district.

Two charged images are ingrained in my memory:

      1) The overwhelming size of the ground floor entrance, which was large enough to allow a small plane to safely perform an internal examination.

2) The complete lack of perception of distance and reality that I experienced as I stood, (at the cafeteria situated at the top), my nose disbelievingly pressed against a sheet of thick glass. I had the sensation of flying and floating, whilst observing pinpricks of light, as Pandora’s Box overflowed and spilled a river of ruby and diamond necklaces, which were silently flowing towards some distant destination….  

I only developed the photographs on my return from Paris, January 2001.

 I didn’t feel like a Gypsy shuffling through those few thousand unconnected images, until my eye fell on an unusual photograph that instantly jolted my memory! On closer inspection, I was flooded with the emotions of that day and with the added realization that also I, had eventually returned home after what seemed like light years of fantastic journeys.

 A title for the photograph immediately suggested itself to me and was born:’WHAT GOES UP, MUST COME DOWN.....CROWNING CAPITALISM.'

You can imagine the shivers that went up and down my spine on the 11 September 2001, as I stared in disbelief at the developing drama on our television screen…..

© Copyright reserved Aleta Michaletos 2000 (images and text)

www.aletamichaletos.com

WONDERING/WANDERING MIND

WONDERING/WANDERING MIND

I love going for walks and preferably alone. The reason for my solitude is that I love been unexpectedly confronted along my way by either the original or the mundane.....and then my mind starts wondering.....

Of course that is the reason why I have legs...so that my mind can wander....

www.aletamichaletos.com

WHEN ART & POLITICS PEACEFULLY COLIDE

The writing returns to the wall with an historical art exhibition by international award winning and avant garde Pretoria based artist, ALETA MICHALETOS.

She feels comfortable when referred to as a contemporary idealist, visionary and alchemist.

With her pioneering spirit and the forging of her own unconventional route, she has managed to blaze her own path and which inter alia led her to the United Nations in 1994, where she joined the ranks of Dali, Chagall, Miro, Rauchenberg and others, by winning the UN Art; Philatelic Award!

Well-seasoned, ‘PRECIOUS CIRCLE’ has now come full circle and together with the 3 equally iconic, symbolical portraits of Mandela and a single oil painting: ‘United at last in the Cause of Peace’ (2002), this valuable collection celebrates the 20 years of our democracy and pays homage to Nelson Mandela in several thought provoking ways. It also celebrates the 20th anniversary since it was first exhibited at the Pretoria Art Museum in 1994. 

 

Witness the visible proof of this local artist’s miraculous journey which lasted 6 years, as she documents the hopes, dreams and aspirations of a society in transition during the bleakest time in South African history.

Through the transforming processes of Alchemy, her daily collection of and the gradual accumulation of positive headlines, which she single-handedly sourced from the media over a period of 6 years (1989-1994), unexpectedly ended on the day of Mandelas inauguration 10th May 1994. The astonishing result was 50 positive collages, which when placed side by side, span a monumental 22 meters. 

It is with good reason that her life motto has become: Baby steps, Giant strides, Quantum leaps!

Don’t miss this opportunity to pause and reflect in front of these significant works (National Treasure created from trash!) which are as timely as they were 20 years ago and which have been a silent testimony at the Pretoria Art Museum since 7th November 2013 (exactly one month before Mandela passed away). They are still on view until the middle of July 2014.

Hear about the catalysts, organic development and process of transformation, which resulted in ‘PRECIOUS CIRCLE’ and flowing from that, the first portrait of Nelson Mandela: ‘REBIRTH’ (which won the United Nations Art & Philatelic Award in 1994) as well as the 2 additional portraits: ‘GOD BLESS MADIBA’  and ‘MANDALA MANDELA’. (All 3 exhibited at the UN Headquarters in 1994)

For several decades Aleta’s gradual sense of a Society that was ‘out of order’, culminated during the late 80’s when destructive atmospheric conditions  became unbearable.

Identifying with the country’s agony and her own feelings of despair and helplessness (caused by traumatic media coverage of political events) MICHALETOS  felt compelled to reverse the trend.

Her way of taking it upon herself to transform the situation through direct intervention and so becoming a protagonist, was the conceptualization of her tour de force, ‘PRECIOUS CIRCLE’.

Remembering ‘in the beginning was the word’, she found solace in words and for the next 6 years, a seemingly chaotic collection of news clippings of positive headlines (collected entirely from ordinary Newsprint) was methodically arranged to create 50 orderly collages and entirely transformed the ‘war of words’, into a monumental ‘wall of words’.

  Michaletos sincerely believes that by paying attention to words, you activate, energize and release the power of the ideas which are encapsulated in the words themselves, thereby bringing them to life.

They then become catalysts for action and change. As in themselves words are impartial, it is up to you, the spectator, to choose which words you wish to energize.

It is your own responsibility to build character or a spirit of endurance and by the consistent and frequent repetition of ‘Baby steps’, which transform into ‘Giant Strides….. the process of accumulation results in the achievement of ‘Quantum Leaps’ and the eventual Triumph of the human spirit!

OUR DESTINY IS NOT A MATTER OF CHANCE BUT A MATTER OF CHOICE & CHANGE

Finding better words for a better world, and undertaking actions where words speak loudly, the walls of division became the catalyst for a 22 meter long wall of unison.

Now, as we stand in front of PC we are called to order in quiet Monastic Contemplation and come to realize that we can transform the world word by word.

www.aletamichaletos.com

Copyright ©Aleta Michaletos