I always loved paintings and painters. Looking at live paintings and prints of them I saw the difference - the real thing looks different every time you look at it but the print is the same all the time. |  | |
 | As I could not afford the real things I decided to paint some, my first attempts were free copies of bits of Dali's paintings. I discovered that I love doing it and the smell of turpentine and oil paints. It became an addiction, you could say, and my therapy, for if I felt down, if I started a new picture I became happy again. | |
Maybe it was the smell and fumes of materials. Then I found that others liked the results of my addiction - this was another kick!!! I had an exhibition in Stockholm in 1993 and in a Polish restaurant in London. I hope you enjoy browsing through my page. |
Memories of a child Lena(above my parents, before I was born)
My father’s tale
This was retold often by my Father: I am running with Lena in my arms on the bridge, to the right bank of Vistula, where there are no Germans yet, bombs are falling around us, luckily in the water. And she is laughing all the time – thinking that we are playing. It was September 1939, after her 3d birthday.
I am laying on the grass, on my back, June 1941
I am laying on the grass, on my back, with other children, we look straight up into the blue sky. We play a guessing game: planes or birds. I am on summer campus near Minsk (we lived in Minsk for nearly 2 years). Suddenly Mama and Dad appear, looming above me. They pull me of the ground. We get on a truck. I am very angry. I liked it there, the grass and trees. We are driving on a very bumpy road. I look up all the time, trying to guess: a plane or a bird high there? Now I know, they were all planes, birds don’t fly so high.
The town is burning. We are going down into the shelter, in a long queue. It is in basement of a hospital, because I see lots of people in white coats. I am bored. I stuck some piece of paper up my nose. I cannot get it out. I start to cry. Luckily laryngology is in the basement. Even now I see in my mind a man in white long thing, with a round mirror on his head. He got the paper from my little nose and showed it to me. This apparition was scaring me in my dreams for a long time.
Dad went away, on a pick up truck to enlist. We are alone, me, Mama and her belly, where my little brother or sister is – that is what they told me. But soon we are on an open truck as well. A long trip, through endless forest. The Truck is full of people. At night we sleep under the trees on the grass. It is warm and soft. The smell is better then any other place I have been before. I fall asleep. My mum wakes me up, all are already in the truck. We run to it, but they don’t want us, I understand that, even so I do not know the words. Suddenly Mama is in front of the truck and shouts something. The motor is running and I know it will run over her. I started to howl and pull my mother by the hand back into the forest. But I am weak and she seems to be stuck to the ground. The noise is awful, shouts of people and growl of the truck. Then the end side falls down and the driver throws me between the people, somebody extends the hand to mum. We are inside and moving.
This memory is like cut and edited film strip – edited by my brain? I Should not trust it!!!
