I wrote this short essay when my mother, Ata Kando, was still alive.
It is her birthday and even though she is no longer with me,
it is today of all days, that I miss her the most.
February, 2016
Soon, I will go to Holland for another visit to Ata, my soon to be 103 year old mother. If I am lucky, she will still be able to see my face, probably only the outlines, but her memories will fill in the blanks. She has had enough practice, taking pictures of her children in her long career as a photographer. Her most beautiful photographs are those of her three children. We were her surrogate models, since there was never any money for professionals.
Since I left Holland and the circle of photographers to which my mother belonged, I have always looked forward to my visits and the inevitable submersion into the world of photography. Bookshelves full of the most amazing photography books, boxes and boxes full of slides, negatives, contacts and prints. It felt like I was given the key to a candy store with no limits to how much I could gulp down. This is what I remember as the child of a photographer: a world of art that has shaped who I am. Ata was driven by a need to create and she used us, her children as the clay.
We spent our childhood vacations in southern Italy, wrapped in white sheets, pretending to be Greek Gods and Goddesses, frolicking amongst the Roman ruins of Paestum. While common sense families climbed the snowy mountains of Austria in heavy hiking boots and parka's, my sister and I had to wear flower crowns and skirts made of pine branches, impersonating nymphs of the Alpine forests. Where was justice, I asked myself, as I had to lay still on my brother's lap with an idyllic Bavarian scenery in the background, red ants crawling up my pants, only to be told that I would ruin a masterpiece if I dared move?
Ata had a simple fairy tale in mind, which later was published as 'Droom in het Woud' (Dream in the Forest), a dreamy and sometimes mystical story. They are brilliant, beautiful photographs and well worth the annoyance that they caused in my young life.
But back then it felt like I had to sit still a lot, smile a lot, jump off beach cliffs with cardboard cut-outs in the shape of wings taped to my ankles, because I was supposed to be Hermes, the messenger of the Greek Gods. Or balance an oversized clay urn on my head, because I was the perfect Athena.
All these memories are floating in my head as I look at the pictures that my mother has produced at our expense.
We had moved to Paris after the war and lived in Sevres, a 'banlieue' of Paris, which I now realize was a fairly affluent neighborhood. My mother was determined to give us the same vacation experience as our middle-class friends, but the only way we could afford them, was to hitch hike to our destinations. The luxurious French resorts of Cannes and Nice were en vogue at the time, especially after Cary Grant and Grace Kelley made it the envy of the world in 'To Catch a Thief'.
That is where we were going to spend our summer, my mother decided, money or no money. Without hesitation, she packed a suitcase and lugged the three of us to an all-night truck stop on the outskirts of Paris. She announced to whomever was there, drinking their morning coffee, that we were looking for a ride to the South of France and asked if there was anyone going there. An hour later we were all settled in the large cabin of an oversized truck, with a sleeping birch in which at least 2 of us children could fit, and we were on our way, crossing beautiful France. It took us 2 days. These were my favorite rides, the ones in big trucks with the sound of a large engine roaring, the oversized gear box and the muscled arms of the truck driver. It felt like we were the kings of the road in our high cabin. Going downhill was exhilarating until a steep hill reduced our speed to a crawl.
It must have been strange for motorists to see a young woman with her three children stand on the side of the road, each one of us carrying an oversized backpack. But these were the post-war years and people had a strong sense of solidarity. Rarely did we have to wait longer than half an hour before someone stopped. Sometimes it was a local farmer who took us under his wing, wined us and dined us on his farm. Once we spent the night in a police station. It was too late to find a hotel and 'les gendarmes' were uncomfortable with the thought of a woman and her children spending the night on the side of the road.
Some countries were more generous in giving us rides than others. In Italy of all countries, a nation that spawned the Ferrari and the Alfa Romeo, we finally had to throw in the towel and buy a train ticket as a last resort. I felt sorry for the passengers, sitting there in cramped compartments, like sardines. I knew that the way to really see the world was to stick out your thumb and wait for the adventure to begin.
I learnt many things in my hitchhiking career. At the age of nine, I discovered the taste of cold beer after a long hot day standing on the side of the road. I learnt the hazard of sitting too close to my twin sister in a stuffy car, since she was prone to vomiting. I discovered the value of having an older brother who always made sure he sat between a trucker and my young, attractive mother. And above all, I learnt that I like adventure. And this, I owe to my mother, Ata. leave comment here
