WhEn I grOw uP I wAnt tO bE blOndE AnD hAvE bluE EyEs

I have a complex relationship with Barbie. 

It’s a bizarre love-hate one that is filled with a tension that’s usually linked to associations with real humans. I was one of those Barbie girls. 
It was an obsession, an adoration that spanned the formative years of my childhood. There’s a treasure chest filled with hay-haired plastic limbed entangled memorabilia, and a photograph - the first one I ever took - of said collection in their best, blindingly neon attire perched on a rock in the garden. Big blue eyes, long bleached hair and super-slim elongated bodies semi-replicating the supermodel aesthetic. 

Their perfection entranced me.
There is a note in a diary, upper and lowercase indications of young age: 
WhEn I grOw uP I wAnt tO bE blOndE AnD hAvE bluE EyEs
It’s difficult not to wince when seeing this. Apparently, the main Mattel message of ‘You can be anything you want to be!’ was lost to the more tangible pushing of a specific type of beauty.

It’s June 2023 and there are hot pink tables lining the cafés of Paris and double-decker splashed buses riding the streets of London. Bronzed, bleached hair images of Ryan Gosling and an ever-gorgeous Margot Robbie highlight these marketing ploys, which admittedly are pure genius. 
It seems everyone has Barbie fever.
High street offerings of pink everything embrace this deep-dive into a nostalgia that promises to empty consumers’ pockets and fill theirs. AI-powered filter apps can turn you, oh you with your blemishes and humanness, into an airbrushed vision of doll-like heaven, complete with that juicy Mattel logo hovering just above your head. 

It’s difficult to remove myself from this cynicism.
But when I find out that Greta Gerwig is directing the film there is a sense of relief. That mumbling icon of independent films, spewing witty comebacks, has morphed into a director whose directorial works feed into the intensity of relationships. I watched her directorial debut Lady Bird and at times forgot to breathe. Dramatic as that may sound, her complex depiction of the mother-daughter paradigm is unmatched. 
It’s raw, it’s real. Certainly, she could take on this challenge. 
And perhaps that was the biggest error of mine, in transferring this hope of relatability found in the freedom of independent filmmaking to that of the cogged mass-bleached studio production.

There are glimpses of that characteristic Gerwig and Baumbach screenwriting. Glimpses as attempts to pull that Mattel hyper-commercialism into a direction that allows the dappled light of human truths to shine through: the fleeting conversation between Barbie and an older woman (celebrated as revolutionary for all of its 30 seconds), the acknowledgement of the casting of Robbie as clichéd with a Helen Mirren dryly narrating: ‘Note to the moviemakers: Margot Robbie is the wrong person to cast if you want to make this point” (falls as flat as Barbie’s now human feet) and the emasculation of Ken, as a weird counter-move, that actually sees Gosling’s Ken exude more depth and complexity than the one-dimensional Barbie (if you’ve seen Robbie in I, Tonya you will know that this is not a comment based on performance abilities but rather on character writing).

And when America Ferrera delivers her momentous monologue of decrying the societal pressures of being a woman, as powerfully delivered as it was, the gist felt ironic, ill-matched to the general leanings of a film heavily riding a wave of product placement and carefully positioned feminist motifs as flags of self-deliverance. You cannot separate the institution and its history from the message, no matter how award-winning of a screenwriter you sign on. 

Barbie was introduced to the Real World on March 9th, 1959. 
Created by designer Jack Ryan - he of coke-fuelled binges who once held his own daughter hostage when confronted by the LAPD - and Mattel co-founder Ruth Handler, Barbie was born from the influence of a Bild Lilli doll Handler had bought in Austria. Based on the West German comic character, created by Reinhard Beuthien for the Bild, Lilli’s existence popped up as a need to fill a blank space within the conservatively nationalist newspaper. Sweet yet sexy, inviting with her bursting curves and fashionable make-up, the Lilli doll was conceived as a ‘fantasy’-gift for the male visitors to the newspaper. With her official release in 1955, she was marketed to men and materialised by toy-manufacturer Greiner & Haußer. The same Haußer of O&M Haußer whose catalogues from a few years prior showcase Elastolene models of Hitler and Wehrmacht soldiers.
Adding to the questionability of character, co-founder Rolf Haußer would further state:

‘Lilli was symbolic of her time. She was sexy, young, innocent, fresh. She was independent but, and this is most important, no one could say she wasn’t a virgin.’

The rise of Mattel would be the downfall of this small German company, as they would finally file for bankruptcy in 1983. Disputes, threatened lawsuits, settlements, the Great Saga of Capitalist America vs. Postwar Germany - not forgetting the slight dab of Mattel being then owned by the Jewish Handlers - Rolf Haußer would go to his grave bemoaning the fact that he was never given credit for inspiring Barbie, conveniently forgetting that, creatively, it was Beuthien’s artistry and Max Weißbrodt’s design responsible for Lilli. 
Legal proceedings and controversies seem to continuously mark the backdrop of Barbie’s childhood. Transported to a glitzy Los Angeles of 1978, Ruth Handler was facing the less glamorous reality of being indicted of fraud, conspiracy and false reporting to the SEC and, alongside financial officer Seymour Rosenberg, was sentenced to 500 hours of community service with a five year probation. Herself and co-founder / husband Elliot Handler had already been banished from Mattel in 1974 following the initial investigation of cooking the books and Ruth re-directed her attention to the manufacturing of breast protheses, an arena she entered due to her personal experience with breast cancer and mastectomy in the early 70s.

Ironically, the story of Ruth and her glorious rise and inevitable fall are more rooted in the captivating drama of realism than a sing-along excursion from an imaginary world to reality only to end in a visit to the gynaecologist. I’ll avoid divulging too much into that choice of an ending, except to say it’s great that a recently fleshed and vagina-ed Barbie has access to a healthcare plan or the means to go for a general check-up when that service is financially inaccessible to most inhabitants of the US, complete with her accessing free taxi-rides around Los Angeles provided by the ‘newly-empowered’ Latinx mother and daughter characters.

A few chuckles were had, but ultimately I left the cinema with the same unsavoury taste as when one witnesses a slight in a social setting and fails to step in. I felt tricked, I felt I had done my younger self a disservice for falling for a marketing scheme from a brand that had made me feel ugly as a young child. And the representation of that exact dynamic, in the rebellion posed by the teenage character Sasha (Gloria’s daughter), felt neither cathartic nor consequential. Sasha’s momentary revelation, alongside the virtue-signalling of ‘F*** the Patriarchy!’ and a queer cast who fall as background props to the heteronormative Barbie / Ken dynamic, present themselves as a quick brush-over to avoid overt criticism towards that which is deeply nestled within Barbie’s entire creation.

Kasia Delgado in her piece for Inews hits the nail on the head:

‘What I’d have given for two hours of brainless bright-pink fun, or something genuinely smart. It was neither. Instead it was a faux-feminist collection of Instagram-happy memes, the film version of those notebooks with “Girlboss” embossed on the front, a film akin to a “Live, Laugh, Love” poster. Looks nice, means nothing.’ 

Barbie grossed $1.4 billion at the box office, after a highly-publicised release race with Nolan’s Oppenheimer that would result in the portmanteau of Barbenheimer.
During the months of July and August ’23, my social media was inundated with memes and reminders to ‘watch both films on the same day! Wear pink to the Barbie show (you can buy said outfits at: _ and _) and lol, wear it to Oppenheimer to lift the mood ;) comedian TikTok reel: ‘guess Japan knows which movie they won’t be watching (cue: audience laughter)’.

This Americanism of Good Green Money above all within the daily box office tallies of Barbenheimer was set against the backdrop of the Writers Guild of America strike. This divisive quake painted an ever-omnipresent reality of a tiny varnished pink world raking in the harvest as the majority of The Real World are forced out of their homes with a burdensome baggage of debt, lacking any of that musical bedazzlement. 

A few days after seeing that journal-entry wish to be endowed with blonde hair and blue eyes, whilst rifling through a teenage memory box, I find a Barbie pin with her face somewhat maliciously scratched out.
I can’t recall this Sasha moment of rage, nor what initiated it.
But I do pause and revel in that closing of a toxic relationship.

The Outsider, The Self-Made:The Universe of Helen Martins

There is a sky of splintered glass above, signalling the end of day.
Coruscating green angled against a lilac softness, black glittering separating the red gems of walls and ceilings masquerading as that of semi-precious. 
A tall man walks into the room with his wife. British tourists in their sixties. 
The experience of being able to walk straight into the mind of a visionary whose mind borders on the hallucinogenic has him visibly perturbed. 
"What do you think of this?" he demands. 
I express admiration; he responds with further disbelief. 

This house of kaleidoscopic attack is exactly that; arresting, disarming. Your eyes may try to focus on each signature, but you are overwhelmed and in this state of being flustered, it is perhaps easier to seek a standardised solution. Madness, depression, eccentricity: to sum up the indecipherable to malady.
Helen Martins, as with a myriad of fellow artists scattered across oceans and eras, would not be immune to this summation.

A temple sitting squarely in a dusty village named Nieu-Bethesda.
With dusty as a lathering of one’s skin in a viscous lava of grime as particles meets sweat induced from a boiling sun.
The avenues are lined with imposing willows, the brilliance of their curtains turned muted as the yellow sand of the Karoo whips white walls a uniform shade.
The Dutch Reformed Church's urge to add another place of worship to the roster was what led to the forming of this village in 1878. Initially, a farm owned by B.J. Pienaar, it was known as 'Uitkyk,' translated from Afrikaans as 'Look Out,' a literal reference to the local farmers having to be cautious of the San whose land they had claimed ownership of. Merging municipality and church, citizens were obliged to pay a double tax, and this, among larger economic triggers such as The Great Depression, led to the village losing the majority of its population and potential in acquiring the status of a grand Eastern Cape town. Indeed, it is sleepy - nightmarish once night falls and a blackness like no other envelops its streets. The NG Kerk tolls its bells, as it has done for centuries, and children from the Pienaarsig township, a band of residences circling the perimeter of the town, dance along and push stick to soil in boredom.

Time turns fluid.
An internal racing slows down, and thoughts are allowed to wander aimlessly. It appears it was in this state of flux that a thirty-something-year-old Helen Martins found herself in.
Returning home after a failed marriage to dramatist Johannes Pienaar, she assumed the proverbial role of feminine caregiver to her debilitated parents. She was the youngest of six children. Her mother, her ally, died in 1941 from breast cancer. Her father, described as somewhat of an Old Testament-doused monster of cruelty, died in 1945 from stomach cancer. The latter was moved to a room etched with the name 'The Lion's Den,' where the windows were boarded up, and walls adorned with black glass. Entering the den, a defiance is palpable - more so than the imagined imagery of a sickly man being confined to isolation. Apparently, he was not spoken to at all in the last years of his life and this seemingly harsh sentence was served as a final act of revenge. 

For those who know small towns, there is an innate understanding of fenced whisperings and Bible-belted condemnations. For Helen Martins, a divorced woman hell-bent on creating her own mystical world, a small place such as Nieu-Bethesda was both a cage and a paradise.

The Owl House, on Martins Street, is an inconspicuous structure.
A pilgrimage of cement figures - Biblical and mythological - move towards the East in the courtyard.
Wise men, giraffes, sphinxes, back-bending figures complete with coloured glass punctured attire mark The Camel Yard, a personal mecca of Martins. And, of course, there are owls. Omnipresent guardians. Bearers of intuition and self-actualisation within Western culture; harbingers of death within local African culture. You feel their glazed eyes resting upon you as you circle the perimeter of the garden.
A sign hangs above a fence: 'This is my world’.

This space of evident pride allowed her creative direction to grow and fostered collaborations with local craftsmen. Jonas Adams, Piet van der Merwe and Koos Malgas (her longest collaborator at twelve years and a remarkable sculptor) were local coloured construction builders and sheep shearers whom at various points of their lives entered Helen's orbit. Without their understanding of materials and construction techniques, her works would have never materialised. According to locals, she was aware of how crucial their mastery was to her creative vision and would pay them above the going rate. This, coupled with them being a handful of people to access Martins' property, soon resulted in further kindling to the local rumour fire. 
A promiscuous woman of no morals.
A witch who cast spells via her statues. 
A traitor to the local Afrikaans community; one who blatantly disregarded the social rule of staying away from a community limited to living on the outskirts.

This ostracism would set the path in Helen fully embracing her outsider art. 
Her days were occupied with transforming her house and garden. She rarely partook in the production, part for grinding beer bottles in a coffee grinder and these bean-sized glass results would line the interior walls and ceilings of The Owl House, allowing vibrance to embrace each room.

The pantry is abundant with jars of these grindings.
A candy store of fluorescence waiting to be plastered on yet another wall. Other walls were knocked down to force more light between the rooms with the addition of custom-shaped mirrors to further reflect the adjoining rooms' vivid walls. This obsession with luminance is tangibly tied in with a kitsch sense of humour. A lime precursor to the Furby stands wide-eyed in front of a framed nude in her bedroom. A sickle moon mirror doubles the painting of a praying Joan of Arc (flanked by a background of lions) in the dining room.
The guest bedroom's one single bed - dubbed The Honeymoon Suite - is occupied by a white and black doll lying alongside one another as a country outside wages a racial divide. They are overseen by a cross fashioned out of a mirror. Standing before this somewhat odd scene, you catch your reflection in that symbol so ironically synonymous with both love and rebuke.

I have read burdensome descriptions of these household features in articles. 
Frightening, menacing, shocking, evil. None of them seems to fit.
There is a playfulness, a leaning towards the satirical, that underlines placement and choice. It's as if she were there in the room with you, all of her seeping into each strategically placed item and artwork. A tiny figure lies on the floor in the green room. Its body and head concealed with a leather bag, only one foot and one hoof protruding as evidence of form. The Little Devil, she called it. And in the dining room, against a sun-yellow wall, there's a hand-coloured photograph of a Voortrekker woman, white bonnet complete, smiling with the Pretoria Voortrekker monument looming behind her. Heritage, spirituality (avoiding overtly religious as it seems to be more personalised than straight-cut), mythology, and romance weave this house together. 

Helen would make her way through each room to enjoy the moving light and set-up scenes, planning more 'work'.
Never 'art', but 'work'. That term succinctly encapsulates a necessity to express, to negotiate a physical space that was lagging behind. Now we exit the house through a small door between the kitchen and bathroom. The numerous statues captured in a moment of journey are still frozen. Their eyes have changed with the passing of heavy clouds. They face towards the monumental Sneeuberg mountain range. The splintering sun of the morning has given way to an ominous sky, promising a rainfall that would be so welcomed in this land of the dry. To the left of the property, across the street, resident craftsmen selling quintessential Owl House sculptures showcase their works under battered tarpaulin and corrugated iron. I am told several of them are direct descendants of Malgas and Adams. Calling out sales pitches with promises of discounted prices, their individual artistry is evident in the slight characteristics that make each owl, and sun, and camel, and cross. I purchase three owls and one misshapen star that sways overly to the left, its asymmetry marking a particular beauty. 
The total amounts to R180. 
Times have been tough.
This recession. Tourists no longer venture out to this small village. Petrol prices have increased. 

Down the road, a Dutch-style house is going for R3,500,000.00, formerly owned by a Johannesburg finance big-shot. 
It will definitely sell, we are told. It's a cute getaway to remove oneself from the chaos of the city.

A cage and a paradise of a village of a country of a world that seesaws between extremes of experience as a birthright.
Helen Martins falls in here, with all the rest of it.
She took her own life at the age of 78 by ingesting caustic soda. Those closest to her share letters of her expressing her loneliness and disillusionment. Her eyesight was slipping, and her church of shine was fading right before her. There seems to be a common thread in written accounts that her solitary life of creation was what lead to her inevitable downfall. A quick reasoning to determine her depression. But perhaps she was just another person who aged, and as with all those who must lose their links to vitality, there is also a loss of willingness to go on once this sense of purpose has been cut. We know those individuals. The grocery store owner who can no longer count the fruit and stand proudly by the counter. The dancer perfecting a dance notation for decades whose limbs decide to turn calcified.

There is a cruel yet imperative cycle to this mortality game.
However, in a classroom in some other dusty town in 2006, there were students who would look at glossy imagery of The Owl House and The Camel Yard. They would trace the outlines of the ceilings covered in glass with their fingers, almost feeling the grittiness to touch, relishing in the visuals of a world that seemed brilliantly removed from the known and the common. And a decade and a half later, they would make the trek to Nieu-Bethesda specifically to see this universe of Helen Martins.

And that alone surpasses any and all summations.

YUNG NOLLYWOOD x IGBO SPICE

There are those pockets of pure delight on social media that provide a much-needed relief from the over-saturation of tried-tested genericism. @yung.nollywood is one of those pockets.

(blatantly unbothered).
I was born to make me happy.
(marinates in self-confidence). 

Mottos of independence and self-reclamation pepper her memes fashioned from screenshots sourced from various Nollywood films, creating a world where women are the protagonists and their own happiness is the end goal. Challenging sexist tropes, these meme-moulded characters spring to life in strong assertiveness and revel in their own unashamed beings.

I recall watching Nollywood films and series on Africa Magic as a teenager, a channel hosted on the DSTV bouquet in South Africa. A film industry that is famous for being markedly prolific, Nollywood’s success lies in its accurate depiction of the collective experiences of Nigerian society – avoiding any imitation of its Hollywood counterpart. There’s been criticism of the technical quality or lack of specialist equipment used, but one thing remains outstanding and that is the ability of the characters’ created and narratives weaved to outshine any shaky camera or less than flawless transition cut. 

When you’re watching Nollywood, you are fully engrossed. Igbo Spice / baby$lut / Theodora Imaan Beauvais is equally an engrossing main character. Brimming with creative ventures surpassing a singular medium and re-shaping the narrative of the Nollywood woman via the Internet crème-de-la-crème format of memes, we talk manifestation and creative release. 

Where and when did the inspiration come from to start @yung.nollywood?

The inspiration came from a combination of my experiences in the digital and social media space. I am extremely proud of being a Nigerian woman, I believe there’s a swagger that comes with our beauty. Also, I spent an unhealthy amount of time watching TV growing up, especially Nollywood. I always had an archive of screenshots I kept for my personal use (a habit I picked up from following brimalandro a.k.a femburton on tumblr) and when I saw the nolly.babes Instagram page, my best friend at the time encouraged me to start mine. Also, I’m an Aquarius that grew up in a strict catholic household so a lot of the content is really me demanding my freedom. I am creating the autonomous, free spirited woman my inner child always needed.

I have to share with you that @yung.nollywood has become such manifestation material between my friends and I, your posts are probably the most shared between us. I’ve noticed a shift in me realizing my self-worth from them. Focusing on self-care and loving oneself, how did the decision come about to steer the memes in that direction?

Oh my goodness thank you! I am so so happy to hear this. The content I create is heavily influenced by my personal life. I reached a point where I was mentally depleted and I tried everything to get my energy back. Honestly, I kept praying to God, I knew something needed to change in me. One day while I was on Youtube and I found a video about the importance of femininity and started investing in taking care of myself. That opened the door to manifestation. I realized that I’d been raised to believe the only way to create what I wanted was to work tirelessly when in fact all I had to do was ask and receive. I am worthy of everything I want simply because I am, and if it doesn’t work out it’s because there is better. I’m someone that loves to share good news, even if it’s just for encouragement’s sake because if I never saw that video that inspired the change in my life, where would I be today? I’m just happy that I’ve been blessed with a platform that actually reaches people, beyond Nollywood.

There’s also a sense of confronting gender stereotypes; a full celebration of womanhood relishing in the sexual and owning their time, instead of the ‘dutiful’ figure we’re continuously fed to aspire to be. I can feel this movement happening back home in South Africa as well, an embracing of no-time-for-bullshit. Do you find that this is also prevalent back home for you? Is that what ignited this theme within the posts or is it a more personal approach that’s always been brewing?

Patriarchy is definitely the theme in most African countries, no debate there. Women have to play into certain roles to be accepted and it’s all a trick. At the end of the day, you’re a whore or a bitch to a man once you say no to him, or you’re above him etc. It has nothing to do with who you are. Women deserve to choose their story. We are not supporting characters. Also I love South African women, really.

You released a track - Thunder Thighs - this year, which I can’t stop listening to. What inspires your music? You’ve written poetry extensively, do most of your lyrics come from that source?

Ah, you did your research. I'm blushing. Yes all my songs start as poems and go from there, even how I write is in stanza form. Poetry is my first love.

I love the name bby$lut - it’s such a beautiful fuck you to the patriarchy and outdated notions of the roles of women (the classic dilemma of the Madonna / Whore complex). How did you arrive at that name?

My friend Nnamdi started calling me that as a joke and it stuck, I called our friend group the sluts, so there was mother slut, baby slut, etc. I love how provocative it is.

Your two artworks included are very rich in symbolism related to the feminine experience, could you share with us the meaning behind them? How did you come to painting as another form of artistic expression?

The first painting with the legs spread is very provocative and in your face. I used those colors so you have no choice but to stare, but you can’t touch. I remember my mum seeing it and commenting on how jarring it was and I responded “so is rape”. That’s the point. We should all be able to look at a naked woman spread eagle and not touch. The second painting is a girl nailed to a cross in the shape of the female symbol, pretty self-explanatory. The eyes represent the world watching while being female kills her.

I had a friend who painted and I would watch him and think I can definitely do this. So, I did, and I thank God for giving me the vision of what to paint.

You also run a podcast channel titled Spice Station, tackling topics such as premature adulting, the abortion economy, crème de la coochie (good pussy skills), heartbreak, astrology, etc. It’s also incredibly intimate with you sharing personal losses and musings, do you find the process cathartic? 

One thing about me is my lack of shame about what I’ve gone through. Communication and self-expression really helps me. 

The astrology episode, ‘I Hate Virgos’, brought on some laughs. What’s your sun / moon / rising? What signs are you usually drawn to?

Sun in Aquarius, Moon in Sagittarius, Rising in Scorpio. I’m usually drawn to Geminis, Pisces, Aries and Sagittariuses.

I’m gathering you’ve lived in both Nigeria and Canada extensively, how was the transition between the two spaces? They’re pretty much the complete opposite in many ways.

Honestly it was very hard especially when I reached the 5 year mark. But I realized it’s all about what’s going on with me internally, as long as I can be Nigerian in Canada I’m happy. As long as when I’m in Canada I have the option to go to Nigeria and when I’m in Nigeria I have the option to go to Canada I’m fine. Nigerian weather wins obviously but I have more rights in Canada as a woman, as a worker, as an artist.

Running this magazine is emotionally / soul-wise rewarding but also incredibly challenging (financially, resource-wise), I can imagine the behind-the-scenes of @yung.nollywood could be the same. You create content for Instagram, have an incredible merch line, a podcast channel and a blog - that’s a lot of work, not even taking into account your music creation as bby$lut. What are common misconceptions people have about the process of running it? Any advice to those also wanting to forge their own path ahead?

People think I’m rich and I claim it! It’s a lot of work but I love it so I don’t notice how much I’m doing till someone says it to me. For everyone forging their own path, stay authentic to you. Don’t do stuff for clout, you’ll be more than okay.

You have a vision for a reason, and it only matters that you can see it. When no one claps, clap for yourself, validation is something I still struggle with but drum it into yourself, “I like it and that is enough.”

Which Nollywood movies or shows do you find the most captivating? Do you have a favourite director specifically?

My most recent favourite is Glamour Girls on Netflix, and of all time it’s Girl’s Cot. I don’t have a favourite director in Nollywood, but in general it’s Billy Wilder.

Which Nollywood character/s best describe your personality?

Honestly I don’t know, but my face is super expressive like Ini Edos.

What are you currently manifesting?

A car.

What do you not have time for? What do you have all the time for?

Disrespect. Love.

If you could pick any fruit to accurately match you, which one would it be?

Easy, a mango. (Pun intended lmao).

the briefcase

All that is left is a briefcase filled with items you chose to keep.
The will, the bank brochure from the 90s filled with promises of low rates and premium services, the wallet with a solar-powered calculator. The photos of Halevy Liquors, our home away from home, the business you prided yourself on – the one that so sharply exhibited your meticulous attention to cleanliness and inherited OCD. The photos of our home, when you first purchased it, as a young family.
There’s a promise of potential that filters these analogue remnants. If a stranger were to stumble upon this briefcase, what deductions would they make?

It obviously belonged to a person who thrived on organization, worked within business, enjoyed golf tournaments. He must have had children, due to the cards scribbled with ‘I lOvE DaD’ in fluorescent milky-gel pens, complete with badly drawn illustrations of a house and a family. His cultural background affirmed by the old escudo bank notes and local Portuguese club memorabilia.
I relish in the role of the stranger.

Frequenting flea markets where photographs slip from faded albums and as you open them you are invited to another world; one where nostalgia tinges every memory and you are granted access to people who you will never know, perhaps and most likely, those who no longer are here with us. There’s a common theme of cake, smiling, weddings, beaches, picnics, flowers, grandfathers holding grandchildren, teenagers huddled in small rooms holding beers through cigarette-smoke haze, workplaces, monuments.
At times, the family member turned photographer is well-versed at composition and framing; and at other times the frame vehemently cuts off a forehead or renders a building lopsided. I wonder how these items found their way here nestled in between vinyl and vases. A brown and orange floral patterned album showcasing the highlights of one family in Berlin in the 70s. Their walls are plastered with a wallpaper that screams of the times and their frames are filled with laughing, social faces.
They seem happy.
A card displaying multiple ID photos collected by one man of his progression from childhood to old age, each individual image recording a moment of time that translates itself into visible emotion: the early 20s face of the carefree, the 40s face of a realistic weariness.

Who is he?
Where was he from?
What hopes and fears weaved their ways into his daily life?

But when it comes to this briefcase and these documents and photographs, I am no longer the stranger.
I become the daughter of the deceased, a role that is stabbing and continuous. I search for you, holding each object as you once did as if they may magically invoke a memory forgotten.
Death does that to those left behind. The tangible transform into totem, more personally precious than any of those housed in museums. This briefcase of my fathers is the only physical portal left. I rummage through the papers and feel the briefcase for hidden compartments, maybe that’s where you left your final words, even though I know that – you being a silent man – there are no words written.
You see, the past and present tense still mingle.
Loss places the bereaved in a suspended state of living between two worlds.

28 September, you would have turned 61.
20 August, you decided to end your life.

The anniversaries begin to tally.
It’s been a while.

I am rifling through your possessions to have a conversation with you in the only way that is possible. We could talk about all the things we never did.
Initiated into adulthood with the proverbial pressures bearing down, I finally have the capacity to understand you, not as a parent, but as a person, removed. We could talk about the addiction, the debt and the expectations that weighed without release.
Perhaps you would be pleased to know how the times have changed and we can openly admit our sadness. I could tell you that I accept your departure, and that you’re still the strongest person I know. I could remind you just how much light you brought to those around you, simply by just standing there and that you were never defined by the standings of success we all get lost in and succumb to.
We could have one last Sunday of tradition where you'd cook soup and listen to the Gipsy Kings on full volume. Your love language of soup has been passed on and I think of you while I cook caldeirada, canja, caldo verde.

To sit with these pieces of paper, plastic, leather is to sit in a meditation aided. What will come of such vestiges as they turn digital and lose themselves in the incessant stream of renewing algorithm? In seventy years, who will sit with this briefcase and ponder on a life determined by material evidence?

Maybe the briefcase will be separated from the wallet, the photos from the will, the lighter from the coin – just as you were separated from us, just as we were separated from a world as we once knew it.
Maybe this separation will entrust the wallet, the coin, the briefcase to another, a stranger, who will flow within the webs of this world.
May they also have close ones who will, in an indeterminate future, sit with these belongings in a differently new, but same, conversation.

COMO LA FLOR