Inspiration

Words like Winter Snowflakes

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I recently saw the movie Ghost World with friends, and it’s been haunting me.

I did not like it at first. We had a good conversation following the film and talked about what we did/did not like about it. I had plenty of things too say. I was probably too loud, too vocal. My response to the characters was strong: Why didn’t the protagonist (or would she be an anti-hero?) Enid fight for anything? Why did she choose to run away? Why didn’t she allow herself to connect with people? Why was she so busy looking down at people that she forgot to look around, to learn, to grow?

My companions were not quite as angry with Enid (Thora Birch). Where I saw an easy out, someone else saw hope in Enid’s choice to leave. We agreed to disagree.

Days later, the character of Enid has stayed with me, as has Seymore.

I cannot easily dismiss characters that remain with me, that live on and challenge me in some way. So here I am. Why is Enid haunting me?

Sure, I identified with some aspects of her character–trying to be different, trying to find an authentic style. But I didn’t *like* Enid. I wanted more for her.

Did my response come from a place of “Valya-as-parent?” Was it because I fear for my own children, that they could quit, or  push everyone away, or run away from home?

Maybe. That’s part of it.

However, I think it’s more than that.

Thora Birch (Enid) and Steve Buscemi (Seymore) both did a fine job in their roles, and their performances were the highlight of the film. I cared about their characters, I was cheering them on when they connected. But the connection is too brief, too fleeting. In the end, Enid keeps everyone and everything at an ironic distance.

Yes, she has clever, snarky comments of disapproval, but beyond that what does she have? What does she hold onto? Are Enid’s sarcastic comments an attempt to be real in an increasingly artificial world?

She never chooses to be a part of anything, except for her brief time with Seymore and the tatters of her relationship with her best friend Jessica. The only thing she chooses is to ride on an empty bus to nowhere. I suppose that’s a choice and fits with the movie, but I was not satisfied.

Was I looking for a Hollywood ending? No. That’s not it. I know that it’s not all sunshine and unicorns, especially at that age.

I remember being young and feeling lost and disjointed. Was this meant to be a film for my generation, or the generation that immediately followed my own?

Perhaps Enid evokes my Jungian “shadow”? Often the things that annoy us most about another person are the aspects of our self that we dislike and try to ignore.

While I may not have liked Ghost World, I think it was a successful and provocative film. Not many films have earned a journal entry. 😉

I want to read the comic book version next.

A year of mad beauty and so many shades of joy

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Tonight was a relatively quiet end to a year that was anything but quiet. I would not have it any other way.

2010 was an incredible year: published a novel and literary magazine, celebrated Chicago’s literary history, partied with rockstars, writers, composers, and photographers, renovated a house and cultivated a home, celebrated friendship among American Gods, and danced in the kitchen with the three magical people I’m blessed to have for children. I rekindled and reconnected with dear ones, was awed by art and inspired to continue living a life of creativity and connection.

It was a good year. Thank you to everyone who helped to make it possible. I am blessed and grateful and excited about what the future will bring.

May your new year be wonder-filled.

Happy New Year.

xxo

Незлим тихим словом (A kind, quiet word)

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Back in November, I was invited to participate in a reading of Ukrainian American writers at the Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art in Chicago.

I’ll admit to being a bit nervous before the reading at UIMA. It was a new venue for me, and I was uncertain of the audience: Who would attend? How would the Ukrainians like my selection from The Silence of Trees?

Any anxiety was unfounded; the audience was gracious and enthusiastic. I even ran into a few people I hadn’t seen in years. I thoroughly enjoyed the readings by the other Ukrainian American writers: Anya Antonovych-Metcalf, Michael Beres, Ksenia Rychtycka, and George Wyhinny.

Ukrainian American Literary Voices Reading at UIMA. Here we are pictured with the two organizers (Anna Golash and Sonya Arko) on opposite sides of the group.
Three of us had been students (at St. Volodymyr Ukrainian School) of the artist Alexandra Kochman. Pictured: George Wyhinny, Alexandra Kochman, Valya Dudycz-Lupescu, and Anya Antonovych-Metcalf

Such diverse voices, genres, and themes in our writing, and yet there were familiar echoes . . . of sacrifice, displacement, hope. There were references to Chernobyl, to WWII and the DP camps. Ukrainian words peppered the prose: familiar names and places.

As I listened to the other readings, I found myself thinking about our little sampling. Was there something that connected our work as Ukrainian American writers? Something that set us apart from other ethnic American poets, dramatists, novelists, artists?

Clearly our worldview and voices have been shaped by certain defining historical events of the 20th century. Shared traditions and language influence our imagery and help to define our characters. But what does it mean to be a Ukrainian American writer/artist in this day and age?

I didn’t come up with answers, only more questions. But I think that for writers and artists, questions can be better. They encourage us to seek, to stretch, to challenge, to uncover, to make connections. Questions fuel us. They certainly motivate me.

I was grateful for the opportunity to be a part of the event and happy for the time I had to chat with the other writers. I would have liked a few more hours to sit down with them around a large table, perhaps over coffee or tea, to talk about our inspiration and experiences. I look forward to the next time our paths cross, and I hope that it’s soon.