What caught your eye today? Sitting in my parked car on Solano Avenue, I observe the middle aged man clothed in shades of grey, khakis, extra long sweater and a jacket over it. His body language catches my eye. With a slightly unsure posture, he is standing on the sidewalk. People walk by and he looks attentively and kindly into each person’s face, greeting them silently. The ruddy face exudes a sweetness… I feel moved. A woman, a man, another one, each by-passer is avoiding him. Not meeting his eyes is their goal. As if they can’t see him. He seems unsure, vaguely looking for someone. For someone to meet him? He finally takes a few steps, hesitates, looks far across the street to his left, then walks slowly across the small plaza, and across the street, hesitating again. He is Caucasian. Despite this fact, he seems to not exist to others. Is he perhaps looking for himself? Pondering what makes him invisible, I realize he is exuding an air of poverty, and of being lost. Something we
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Collage of words taken from the Mural: Loved SAY THEIR 92 year old vacuum salesman 1949 husband dragged by March shot by in Sociology Michelle Cusseaux 50 year old TRANS pre med graduate mother of three SAY HER NAME worked in Human Resources mentally ill March 28 widow 3 girls hairstylist Daughter 2016 YOU ARE LOVED neighbor BLACK LIVES comrade Philandro Divall Castile REST IN POWER Shantelle Davis SEVEN year old grandpa Manuel HIS NAME Kentucky Murdered MATTER Feb 23, 2020 Beloved In Memory If you and I would be (or are) Black – or happen to have brown skin – our names could be found on this Memorial Garage Wall. For no special merit are we lucky in life.
Here is Bob Ng's reflecting, and sharing with us his approach to photography. Three months ago, he had shown me a book of his work – all in black & white. So when he later saw my Memorial Mural and offered to take stills, I felt honored, and recently asked him to please write about his approach. "As an old school photographer that grew up with film, chemicals and darkrooms, I learned to savor each precious click of the shutter. To consider each shot. Time and money were limited and not to be wasted. I learned to see the light and shadows. To ponder the shapes and contours. To think of the meaning of the scene before me. To always look for the next great shot. In a world where every phone is a digital camera and billions of new images are posted to the internet every day, it is easy to become blasé and jaded by the of surfeit photos flooding our visual space. Most get barely a glance, before we click the mouse and move on – to the next set of images. But even today, a g
QR code – Miracles This week, we will put a plaque with QR code on the garage doors , so passers-by can be guided to this blog – purely by holding their phone to the square. Like what they do now, I hear, in some restaurants to see the menu on your phone :) Again, angels abound: Bob Ng, art photographer par excellence, ordered this metal plaque as a surprise for me; and David Inman (All Aspects) is making time in his busy contractor schedule to help me to mount it. Thank you, thank you! Everyone is invited to make comments – please share your stories and reactions, forward the link on to others who might be interested. And come by to take in the Memorial Mural in 3D.
Structure & Flow. Form & Movement. Body & Breath. The general layout of the Memorial creates Structure and Form for the different handwritings of the involved artists : Nicky, Laura, Tomye, Jonas, Christopher, Renate, and me. This way, the eye can find rest. The variations of brush calligraphy create flow and change. But there is a repeating pattern, not just chaos . We can read each individual story and take it in fully. The garage doors themselves offer their wooden panels, symmetry of vents, locks and framing. A gallon – more than we needed – of dark grey matte house paint was gifted to me by the painter at my neighbors (he had overestimated the needed quantity) when I mention that I really would like to use this exact color, and asked for the numbers. Anthony Ramon Baez Sept. 20, 1965 – Dec. 22, 1994, 29 year old Security Guard, Bronx, New York Casper Banjo Feb. 1937 - March 14, 2008, 70 year old Civil Rights Visual Artist Activist, Oakland, Califo
Jamie has been staying with me for the last couple of days. Here are his words from an experience in my living room: “Karina strikes the brass pipe hanging from her ceiling. She strikes it with a soft mallet near the top, the bottom, the middle, releasing waves of resonant sound. I stand behind the pipe and gaze out the window. Minutes pass. I can't believe how long the bell keeps ringing. It will never stop. All of the ways it could be muffled, muted, silenced. But here it is, in this beautiful home, singing. My gaze is drawn to the wooden figure beside the window. A lithe, muscular man, he slinks on all fours, hesitant and low to the ground. Fearfully, he peers into the light. Hesitantly, he rises. The brass pipe hanging from the ceiling sings to me and the wooden man. My pop's spirit will keep singing long after he has passed.” Thank you Jamie, for being such a communicative bright spirit – a dedicated, thoughtful, sensitive, and creative teacher for your students at
When I was painting on the mural on Sunday February 21, Jamie stopped his bike and asked if he could take a photo. He lives in Seattle, and was visiting his brother. Biking through the hills he had changed spontaneously his route, and was surprised to come upon the memorial by chance. We got talking. Jamie, in his late thirties, is a writer, teacher, union organizer and activist. A couple of days later, we talked about life, God and the world in my backyard. He shared how his heart and breath was opening with the magnificence of the trees. We stayed in touch, and he sent me the following heartbreaking story, which you now can see on the garage doors: Charleena Lyles April 24th, 1987 - June 18, 2017, Student at North Seattle College, Mother of 4, enjoyed writing poetry, dancing, rapping, while in mental health crisis Shot by Police in front of 3 of her children, Baby in her Womb Killed too, Seattle, Washington
Today is my father’s birthday. He would have turned 96 this year. Heinz Epperlein, July 24, 1925 – May 14, 1993. Papa died fairly young, at the age I am now. On the airplane to Germany, I design a five-pawed lion, my father was a Leo. A most kind, sensitive, inventive, unusual, curious and beautiful man. Arriving at my mother’s, I outline a large version onto cloth, and partition it into the exact number of people (24) who will attend the “Kaffee und Kuchen” after the funeral. Then I cut these 24 roundly shaped parts from a different fabric, and hand out crayons asking the guests to draw what my father meant to them. Nobody knew about my lion. When I roll out the big lion on the coffee table, my piece in the center of the lion’s face already, everyone finds the matching shape for their piece like in a puzzle – and Heinz magically manifests. All are moved and awed, including me. Papa in the hearts of friends, colleagues and family: a man of Sonne und Liebe. Sun & love. On return
A Full moon this evening. Hopefully clouds and fog will wait so we can see it rising. Glimpsing it through the trees, a feeling of quiet mystery waves through my heart, as if my day is washed clean and the night begins her reign like a queen. There is a German evening song (Abendlied) about the rising of the moon – a very well known folksong and lullaby. The words are a beautiful poem by Matthias Claudius from 1778. The sky and stars, the dark silent forest, the white fog rising from the meadows... Many composers, like Schubert, and all kind of singers, created and sang their versions. Der Mond ist aufgegangen Die goldnen Sternlein prangen Am Himmel hell und klar: Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget, Und aus den Wiesen steiget Der weiße Nebel wunderbar. The last of seven verses ends with: “and let us sleep calmly, and our sick neighbor, too.” As a child I so loved singing it, and it comforted me that the sick neighbor was included in this song of solace.
Reading the wonderful comment on the July 14 entry , brought the following memory back to me: In 1968, the Prague Spring with its protests was an exciting period in Europe . We lived in Regensburg, a medieval town close to the border with the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic. I had visited Prague, the beautiful historic city, even had started lessons in Czechoslovakian with an older gentleman. So when the Soviet Union army invaded the country on August 21 st and marched into Prague, my 14-year-old self – shy but rebellious – used her bike as a protest vehicle . Attaching big hand-painted cardboard posters onto the frame, I thought it was effectively attracting attention and looked great. Being an ardent fan of reformist Alexander Dubček who was imprisoned, I asked my father if I could paint our car, making it into a protest car . He kindly thought about it, but pointed out: “Well, I’d love for you to do it, but I would get fired and that would mean no food for the family.” Using the
Today is my mother’s birthday: she would have turned 93 this year! Jutta Epperlein, July 21, 1928 – January 1, 2016 To celebrate and honor her and her making of art till the end of her life, I am sharing with you the tiniest fraction of her prolific outpouring of very original and unique creativity. Here are a few of her painted stone sculptures. She was a trained bookbinder, painter, ceramicist, enamelist, weaver, most inventively working in many mediums. Among them making banners for the Peace Movement in Germany (Friedensbewegung), and woven wall hangings for institutions. I miss you dearly, Mama.
In January, I researched how to best do a Lisjan (Ohlone) Land Acknowledgement on the garage doors. "This Memorial resides on xucyun (Huichin) territory, the ancestral and unceded land of the Muwekma Ohlone people who are alive & thriving in Berkeley & beyond." Since I wanted a different feel for these words, Nicky and I pencil sketched & painted with acrylic felt pens on two lower panels, squatting way down or lying on our side. The pens being a bit faster than painting brush calligraphy helped… And I started paying Shuumi Tax to the SOGOREA TE’ TRUST FUND : https://sogoreate-landtrust.org/ (You might know Corrina Gould from her intensive work saving Sacred Land.)
Tyre King Dec 7, 2002 - Sept 14, 2016, Loved sports, 13 year old, 8th Grader, aspiring business owner, Columbus, Ohio Atatiana Jefferson ..... 1990 - Oct 12, 2019, BA in biology, 28 year old, cared for mother & nephew, Pre-med Graduate of Xavier University of Louisiana, worked in human resources, Fort Worth, Texas Yvette Smith Dec 18, 1966 - Feb 16, 2014, Mother of Three, 47 year old Caregiver, Bastrop County, Texas
It is so dry. M y hands crack w orking in the garden, raking masses of very dry leaves, the dust. The oaks are continuously shedding, sooner than any other year. I put out shallow bowls for the birds to drink and bathe. In the last few days, when teaching several private sessions, I hear myself repeatedly talking about Gravity as one of our greatest allies. How true. Allowing us to root and connect to earth. Holding us. Like Breath, supporting us. These basic principles play important roles in our lives, especially when we become aware, pay attention and learn to come into Balance. Gravity when I glide upwards the 108 stairs, allowing the hill to carry me up – and Gravity when I come down to empty the buckets full of leaves into the green can on the street. Giving my body a chance to find and practice Balance in motion. At the end of the day, on the last descent, hands empty, i jump from step to step. And then have a bowl of yoghurt with my home made plum compote – so utterly deli
Wasser ist Leben Water is life Agua es vida Lebenswasser Eau de vie :) And water can also sweep us away, trap, kill, and drown us. Like happened to 165 – the numbers still rising – people in Germany, Holland and Belgium, just a couple of days ago. “Climate Change” needs to be renamed: CLIMATE EMERGENCY. Now that catastrophes are hitting more and more the wealthy parts of the world, this might help to bring about the right mindset to meet the rapidly accumulating catastrophes worldwide. The earth needs no saving; she is rebalancing herself with the help of the atmosphere. We humans need a major reset, a humble and creative mindset. My sister and her husband are among those scientists who have been warning us for the past 40 years. In the end, it always comes down to the difficult fact that the affluent parts of the world need to consume less. In the sixties, my inventive father started insulating our refrigerator and walls. He put hard-to-find solar panels on the roof
Nicky shares This is Nicky, honored to share reflections from my time with friends & water protectors in Anishnaabe territory at the Stop Line 3 frontlines. We had prepared for this trip for months and the medicines Karina offered kept us centered & grounded as we navigated difficult conversations and as we listened to climate catastrophe in the news – learning about the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico catching on fire, the deadly heat waves in the northwest, the flooding storms. Our journey to Minnesota challenged us physically, emotionally, & mentally - it created pressure between our friendships & deepened our relationships with each other, it heightened our awareness as we crossed through conservative lands as outsiders, and required humility as we showed up as newcomers to the water protector campsite. Time slowed and stretched. The only way we could be was present. We were reminded constantly to self care: drink water, eat, what do you need? The community
We all feel it – undeniably, radical changes are happening, and we can participate by allowing transformation to take place consciously in our own body, being, mind. For me, getting older means walking with awareness towards death, no matter how much life I might still have left. We don’t know. Death is our companion, looking over our shoulder – we don’t know when she will knock. This sets me free to savor, delight and cherish, small and big moments. The other thing more important than ever, is making sure to leave invisible road markers, like crumbs, for the younger generations to stay on track, meaning in harmony with the truth of their soul. These guide posts might help them to find their way back to center, sanity, their own dreams and original purpose. I was lucky to have had true and magnificent Elders in my life – I experienced them as generous guides, not needing the limelight anymore. Now more than ever, we need the ancestors, the old and the young work together to re-ima
Jeremy shares my birthday, December 14th. Composing the victims’ short descriptions for the memorial is like condensing their lives from left-over random facts into a haiku. Excruciating. It is not truly their magnificent essence. But when I paint, space and trace the letters, I feel their spirit. And I hope as you walk by, your eye might catch a glimpse of it. Maybe you feel compelled to spend a minute. Since the mural is still growing, you might discover yet another name & story to be mourned, and known. Their spirit lives on. Jeremy "Bam Bam" McDole Dec 14, 1986 – Sept 23, 2015, Paraplegic, 28 year old, Wilmington, Delaware Words – bits and pieces, found online in newspapers, obituaries, funeral announcements – become a truncated attempt to honor a life tragically and cruelly cut short. On the garage doors, each nam
Cello Back from my cello lesson , I am energized. Every week I am in awe about my good luck to be able to take lessons with my superb teacher Bob Ng who is patient, but minutely observant, precisely spotting my subtle and or not so subtle bad old habits. It is amazing to practice this favorite instrument of mine again after keeping it locked in its case for more than 30 years. I was so scared of discovering that I’d be unable to produce even one good note. Of course my rediscovery is about much more than that. For example, I revisit the 11-year-old’s tenacious commitment once she set her mind on the cello. Every day after school she practices for an hour, using one of the school’s two cellos. The lessons are free. By now almost everyone has left the building. The old hallways, with rounded ceilings and wide-open stairs, are eerily quiet, all hers. At these hours, she senses her smallness enveloped by the mystery of life. Soon a total admiration and love for my teacher is engulfing me
Been living here on Euclid since July 12 th , 1992. That Sunday, a judge wedded my late husband Bob Blauner and me under the magnificent live oaks in the backyard. Only two witnesses attending, Russ and Julie, who – inspired by us – got married a few months later. Barefoot and wearing a simple 50’s red prom dress purchased for five dollars in a second hand shop in the Mission where I used to live, I felt a huge overwhelm of love, joy and gratitude that day. One of the by now faded wedding photos (by Russ Ellis), still on living room wall for all that time... Despite being in my late thirties, I was very new to all of this, a commitment like marriage, a house, a garden. Twenty nine years have passed – how different it all looks and feels now, the backyard, the trees, the climate, me… As a steward of the land, I have become deeply intertwined with it. What a huge privilege and responsibility. On this day, and many other days, I marvel with utter gratitude how it has nourished, carrie
Painting we often felt on unsure ground. But then somehow, the Scaffold manifested – David, many, many huge thanks for putting it up, wow – it made our work so much easier. We could now safely reach the higher panels of the doors. It was fun to climb up on the scaffold, view the world, the bay, and people from up there, and finally stand on a flat surface, relief :) Last year we all felt on unsure ground. The pandemic kept raging in waves, with quickly rising numbers of deaths, and racial uprisings being in full force. Then later in the summer came the lightning storms, wild fires surrounding the Bay Area on all sides, pitch dark days with no sunlight, orange ominous glow, ashes raining, thick brown air dangerous to breathe, evacuations. In the fall it continued with hot eastern winds threatening more inferno. Then arrived chaotic elections, democracy seriously endangered, the storming of the Capitol. All these events highlighted a time of disruption, upheaval, unraveling, and reve
In the middle of the chaos and many uncertainties of 2020 , the many hours of painting – often alone – out on street is grounding for me, a life & truth affirming practice. With surprising and delightful social interludes. Getting to know more neighbors. Talking to a stream of passers-by, on foot, bike or in cars, honking, shouting out their approval, stopping to read, talk, discuss, taking stills to send to family and friends worldwide. I invite friends – one or two at a time – to paint with me. Masked and distanced. As a meditation? Prayer? Work party? Challenge? Joy? All of the above. Each of us realizes that the process of finishing just one panel takes effort and time, so commitment becomes important. But time is not much of a problem now, most of us are not as busy as usual, so organizing is fairly easy for me. From the first group of Nicky, Laura, Tomye, Jonas, Renate and Christopher, only Nicky and Laura, stay. We all learn about the challenge of brush calligraphy on a v
A New Moon this evening – a new beginning, new cycle. Is it time to praise the promise of each day lived with curiosity, caring, soft steps and delight in the perfumed first Santa Rosa plums from my tree? The branches are bowing low from the weight of dark purple riches. This fruit is special, the skin slightly sour, the yellow flesh sweet, marbled with red and pink. Each plum a princess, a precious fragrant marvel. I like to pick them when ready to fall into my palm. And the delicate sensation brings up spontaneous memories: as little kids we climbed over fences, up neighbors' cherry or apricot trees, stealing fruit that went right into the mouth – the guilty sizzle and freedom of summer nights. Returning home with purple smeared lips, hoping no-one will complain. We could have asked and be given perhaps. But no, the secret excursions vibrated with delicious danger. As much as I like to share – friends, please come by and pick some plums – I am glad that the current brood o
Thinking back to May 29, 2020 – all afternoon I have been intensely soaking in and reading about the national and international Uprisings following George Floyd’s murder by police. Later that night I am visited by a clear idea for an effort to create a Memorial Mural on my garage doors. In my mind’s eye everything is in place, including the repetitive, stark black and white design and layout. A Garage Memorial for Black Lives Matter – out on the street for everyone to behold. It speaks in its own voice: a moral obligation coming from my German heritage and legacy, with all its difficult lessons and weight. There is no way I can refuse. Especially having lived and worked here in the United States of America for the past 39 years. All night I dream of painting calligraphy with a brush. I want people to stumble upon my BLM mural, in an unlikely location here in the hills of North Berkeley. Next morning I call a lawyer friend just to be sure it is lawful to make my garage doors into a
First came the Research of the names and lives of Black men, women, children, teenagers, and trans people killed by police in the past decades. Excruciating. I wanted to personalize the victims of this endemic state violence. Finding anything more than the death date and year of birth was difficult in most cases. I wanted the birthdate, who they were, what they loved and engaged in. Very time consuming detective work. At times impossible to find more than bare bones. So dispiriting. The heart grows heavy with this task. Thank goodness, I had helpers. Tomye & Laura who both painted with me, did a bit. And I will introduce you to each of them soon. Then my German friend Renate offered to help, and she did a lot of names – I am so grateful to her. I still do research to this day, and jot all the many names down from recent months. Then I go out and visit the hundred-year-old live oaks in my backyard, breathe and lean on their magnificent trunks. These days they are so happy :) th
Today, like many summer days, starts in the fog – collecting nasturtiums seeds, prodding the ripe ones with fingertips to fall, letting them drop into my palms, a beautiful tactile sensation. They’ll be collected and dried. Or right away I throw them like a child all over my very spread-out terraced yard. This way they will re-appear next February in all kinds of shades of red, orange, yellow. Their faces a plain color, or adorned with contrasting stripes, dots or streaks – so inventive in their variations – make the whole garden explode into smiles and palpable joy for months. But by July the plentiful nasturtium plants – cascading, meandering up to 15 feet and intertwined – are wilting, drying, ready to reseed. Between drizzling fog at night, hot sizzling sun, and me not watering because of drought, I have to now embrace a different feel and look of my backyard. To visitors I try to describe the abundance just a couple of weeks ago – but in vain, it’s gone. Imagine, I say, but h
How much do we care? A person is only really dead when her name is not spoken anymore. SAY HER NAME. That’s why we mourn, remember and honor our loved ones, especially those whose lives were ended prematurely with violence, cruelty and terror. SAY HIS NAME. For me the lives of African Americans lost in the murders by state violence and police brutality are those of our brothers and sisters. SAY THEIR NAME. Beloved Mother Father Daughter Son Sister Grandma Brother Grandpa Partner Wife Husband Colleague Aunt Uncle Friend Grandson Comrade
Every time I go down the stairs to get the mail, go for a walk, return home, or just throw some bottles in the recycling bin, I am still amazed at these very old garage doors that have been now altered permanently. Wanted to do something with them for many years, perhaps a mural with big trees like in my backyard, something like that, organic… So when history asks us to recognize its organic ever-changing or repeating ways, its stasis, evolution or revolution, we must show up with appropriate responses, however unimagined they might have been before. Collectively and individually. And it is not always our choice. We must pay attention, listen, receive and obey the demands of the changing times. As humanity we are in such an acute phase on all levels. What is your response to the demands of our times?
Introdcution to Nicky It’s high time to introduce you to Nicky , my friend, collaborator, and helper in many areas, including the mural. For the past four years, she has been coming weekly to work on whatever needs attention in my Karinaland: the garden, social media for my documentary films, organizing Listening Salons in my living room, hanging bamboo shades in the patio etc etc. Nicky is a gifted artist, activist, dance teacher, poet, deep thinker, and more https://www.nicolegervacio.com/ . We are kindred spirits, no doubt. Both full with wonder for nature, love for art, and a fiery desire for justice and equality/equity. When together we are talking up a storm about the world, society, history, culture, needed change, and complexities in all areas of life. So when I told her last June about my vision for the garage doors becoming a Memorial Mural she was as always most supportive and excited to participate and help. From another mural project downtown Oakland she brought a canvas
This morning in her private session, my long time student and friend Karen told me about the big hundred-year-old Oak in their backyard, splitting all the way yesterday, and having to be taken down today. A big thing. Big Change. For an hour we worked in my living room with axis, alignment, the vertical, and rooting, discovering courage to trust. Deep inner energetic shifts allowed her to harmonize into wholeness despite loss. Mind Body Being all one, like a tree; she went home to bring this energy to her changed yard. Trees die softly, surrendering back into earth. Even if they should crash loudly, they might – like my neighbor’s huge pine – fall over suddenly at midnight onto the middle of the street, and yet avoid kindly & generously crushing any of the numerous parked cars. I am in awe of these beings. I feel intertwined with my big old Live Oaks and Cork Oak in my backyard. I sleep with them, and for over thirty years I have been allowing them to be my teachers and consola
Commemoration as an act of mourning, of honoring and not forgetting lives lost, and of saying “never again” was a part of my upbringing. Dedication to "we will do better." Born into literal and metaphorical rubble and ashes of post-war Germany, I know what it means to bear the shame and guilt of a people that have perpetrated unimaginable horrors. The Holocaust. More later on how I feel and perceive the connection here to my birth country’s history. But for sure, Remembrance and Commemoration sit deep in my bones. A year later, I am still painting on the Memorial, alone or with dedicated artist friends. By now hundreds of hours of our hands measuring, drawing lines, spacing & sketching words, calligraphy with brushes in various sizes, three layers of matte dark grey paint. Who would have thought we are still with the mural. But then, how could memorializing ever have an end to it?