As if it were posted just for me, a small notice caught my eye at the library in early October:--"Digital Storytelling for Elders". In one of those time constraints that prevail in fairytales, I had to act fast. The start of the 8-week workshop was just two days away and luckily there was space for me to join the small group.
It has truly been a "we laughed together, we cried together" experience -- a special kind of bonding among a creative and caring group of individuals. Lately, as our videos show signs of exceeding all expectations, I've been reminded of the "brotherhood" described in one of my bibles -- THE ART SPIRIT, the famous collection of teachings by the American artist/teacher Robert Henri. Try to overlook his early 20th century use of male nouns and pronouns and just read and inhale the spirit:--
"Through art, mysterious bonds of understanding and of knowledge are established among men. They are the bonds of a great Brotherhood. Those who are of the Brotherhood know each other, and time and space cannot separate them.
The Brotherhood is powerful. It has many members. They are of all places and of all times. The members do not die.... The work of the Brotherhood does not deal with surface events....No matter what may happen on the surface, the Brotherhood goes steadily on. It is the evolution of man....No matter how strong the surface institutions become, no matter what laws may be laid down... all change that is real is due to the Brotherhood."
One of our early workshop exercises revealed the bonds across time of the Sisterhood. We were asked to bring a photo or an artifact that had personal meaning to us. I brought my grandmother's sewing basket; a basket that I'm sure is older than she was.
After we placed the photos and objects on the table -- without any explanation -- each of us selected someone else's treasure and created a story about it, which we then told out loud. As soon as I'd brought out my basket, I'd noticed an immediate spark from my new friend S, who was sitting across from me.
As she'd told us in early introductions, her family was originally from India and generations back settled in Uganda. She was raised there until as a high school graduate, she won a full scholarship to the University of Wisconsin. Her family left Uganda soon afterwards during the vicious reign of Idi Amin.
S immediately claimed Granny's basket, and it could not have been in better hands. When it was time to share our storytelling efforts, she held it almost with reverence. Stroking the basket, showing everyone the top and bottom, she pointed out the top's intricate design and the perfection of the foundational weave on the bottom.
When she opened the basket, she showed how perfectly the lid fit and noted the smoothness of the interior weave.
Then she told us the true story of an artisan in her home town in Uganda. This basketmaker was renowned for her work and was always prominent among the women who displayed their wares for sale to the tourist trade. On a day when S was passing nearby, the woman had placed one of her exceptionally fine baskets in front of all her others, with its lid placed beside it to showcase its beauty.
A group of tourists came into range, and as they came to the basket displays, one of the tourists threw a coin into the lid of the basket. My friend S noticed the slight wince of the basketmaker, whose amazing creation had been ignorantly mistaken for a beggar's bowl. This fine artist waited for the tourist group to pass, removed the coin and left it on the ground, placed the lid on the basket, and pulled her most expert creation back to the safety of its group.
"And that is what I remember as I look at this basket," she said.
Through my tears, I asked to tell the group the background of Granny's sewing basket. My grandmother's family goes centuries back in the state of South Carolina. Even today, the descendants of slaves brought to Charleston are expert basket weavers and sell their creations to the tourist trade. Typically, these "sweet grass baskets" use the local materials of sweet grass, pine needles, bulrushes, and palmetto leaves in a simple pattern.
A lidded sweet grass basket that's been in my family since the 1940's looks like this:
My grandmother's basket is much older -- I believe it's from her own mother, which would take us back to Civil War days, back to a time when the basketmaking techniques were closer to their roots.
Now, through her tears, my friend S continued my story: "Most of the slaves came from the west coast of Africa -- from my part of the continent." And then we continued almost in unison: "These basket weavers could be related -- both in actuality and in art."
We laughed together. We cried together. With joy, I'd say.
And among Robert Henri's many wise teachings is this one
"All real works of art look as though they were done in joy."
