I got married and
moved from Chicago to Houston last fall, where my husband is based. We bought a
house in a wooded area overlooking a ravine, with a studio space in its lower
level where I placed my art and artifacts. I am an economist by day and an
artist by night. Over the years I had created works on paper, collages, printed
photographs in a darkroom set up in my pantry, and
exhibited them regularly. I had collected art from local artists in Chicago and
my many travels. As an immigrant away from her home country, I also kept boxes of family photos,
handwritten letters, childhood slides, and memorabilia from my late father’s
world travels. All of these I kept in that space. The day before Hurricane
Harvey hit Texas and the rains arrived in Houston, my husband and I moved all
these items as well as his architecture school drawings and blue prints to
higher shelves in the studio. We prepared ourselves and our belongings for a
potential flood of 3-4 feet. This room flooded at an all time high up to its ceiling.
A week later entry was still impossible and a demolition
crew had to use axes to break through its doors on Labor day. I geared up with
boots, a mask and gloves to be present when they broke in. It was impossible to
step in the room: everything had come down - sheetrock, ceiling, furniture,
paint and all the items we had meticulously “saved”
were now in ruin and become a mixture of mud and water. Some items had floated
up by the high waters and attached on top: a brush stuck on the wet wall, small
boxes atop the visible skeleton of the room. In the darkness of the room, the
first thing I felt was assault, a blow to things I had worked hard for. The
first image that appeared sitting face-up on a pile of debris was a photograph
of a dance group in Iran who performed at our wedding. It was surreal to see everything destroyed but also
beautiful to be reminded of happy times. A new perspective was forming.
The crew spent a full day taking mounds of
debris out of this zone of carnage, deconstructing what was already destroyed.
As they pulled various boxes and handed them to me with a sense that I
interpreted as sympathy, they waited patiently as I kneeled on the muddy porch
scavenging through the smelly piles. It was sad and heartbreaking to see packs of photographs, handwritten letters,
and my memories stuck together in contaminated fluid. In a state of mourning, I
started frantically taking photos of what was visible and salvageable: a photo
of my late father and myself, one of my sister and my mother, letters with now
illegible phrases, friends from the past, grandparents long gone, ex loves from
pre digital era. They appeared smiling, as if wishing me strength.
At first the sense was a sense of loss;
loss of things that you hang on to and cherish. I felt guilt and remorse for
not having moved things to the first floor (which also flooded but not as
intensely). I was angry at having bought a house near a bayou. I felt sadness
that most of these images were not digital or digitized and the negatives were
not salvageable. All of my sculptural artworks were absolutely destroyed. The
chemical from the negatives and slides and the flood water had washed down on
photo papers and created new abstract images. Amid the mixed feelings and the
frenzy of not hindering the work of the demolition crew, I ended up in a
creative frame of mind: that vortex of peace and serenity that one experiences
when deeply immersed in the creative process. It was as if I was back in a
darkroom, where nothing else mattered but the creation at hand. The abstract
and washed out images had transformed into beautiful visuals that spoke of loss
but also of happiness. They showed both sides of an emotion. The same way that one
can experience moments of calmness and peace when going through the loss of a
loved one. These images were a visual manifestation of that sensation.
Working against a backdrop of a flooded
bayou on the results of years of concentrated creativity and treasured
collectibles covered in brown muck, my sadness, guilt and anger changed into appreciation, gratitude and healing.
If these objects could resurrect themselves - why couldn’t I? I kept a
few things. Cleaned them to the extent possible, dried them for days and stored
them in new boxes. What I have salvaged from the flood is a number of washed
down photos and muddy
canvases, but more
importantly a reminder that no matter how hard or devastating a situation is,
you can try to find something to hang on to and gain hope. I shared my array of
feelings through my social media outlet: Instagram – sharing photos of the new
version of the past through photographs. My followers felt their own sense of
awe, expressed mixed emotions, and said things such as:
"glad you shared because it reminds us of the bubbles we live in,"
"tragically beautiful," "Harvey is quite an artist,"
"getting perspective as we prepare to evacuate for Irma," "interesting
how there is always, always room for gratitude,” etc.
As I lost my physical art studio that I
loved and most of my cherished artworks, I gained a new project: I plan to
exhibit a series of these salvaged images for raising funds for the victims of
the Harvey floods, especially those whose livelihood was damaged and lost much
more than I did. The message would be one of hope and resilience and the beauty found in ruin.
My Instagram feed: @avishehmoh
Avisheh Mohsenin,
Houston, September 13, 2017
The Houston Chronicle picked up the story and kindly published it:
The Houston Chronicle picked up the story and kindly published it:
