I've memorized every knickknack and every corner of my grandparent’s apartment. It’s a perfect place that I know in my bones. It is one of the few constants in my life that has sat waiting for me every Christmas and every summer. as time goes on I've realized one day i wont have that place.
As an artist, anticipatory grief is manifesting as me trying to figure out how to put this place and this person in a capsule before its too late.
My grandma is polish, a diva, a matriarch. She birthed 6 kids who had 12 who had 15. She raised all of them on little and continues to keep our family together.
My grandma loves shopping, but never for anything that’s not on sale. She cried the day she couldn’t wear her high heels anymore. She loves all things bling and is the most stylish lady i know. all of her unique pieces are held between five closets, but she told me not to tell anyone that. my favorite room in her apartment is decked head to toe in cheetah print and safari figurines. thrifting and my hoarding are in my blood.
My grandma is funny. she always says she could be a comedian in another life. She used her humor in letters to my grandpa to cheer him up while he was serving in the Korean War before they were even married.
I often feel that photos fall short of capturing what it feels like to stand in her home, surrounded by history and things that she loves. and yet i find myself in a cycle of obsessive documentation. how do i archive her legacy when every moment feels so close to the end?
