Monolog mit meinen Tรถchtern
Monolog mit meinen Tรถchtern
Sobald ihr legitimer Ort, der Ort, an dem sie sein könnten, wenn sie wären, berührt wird, gewinnen sie in überwältigender Eile ihr Leben. Plötzlich, urplötzlich weiß man wieder alles über sie, was man vergessen glaubte, hört ihre Rede, berührt ihr Haar und blüht auf im Glast ihrer Augen. Vielleicht war man damals der Farbe dieser Augen nie sicher, jetzt erkennt man sie, ohne sich eine Frage danach zu stellen. Es ist möglich, dass alles an ihnen nun intensiver ist, als es war, es ist möglich, dass sie nur in diesem plötzlichen Aufscheinen ganz zu sich selbst werden. Es ist möglich, dass jeder Tote auf seine Vollkommenheit in der Wiederauferstehung wartet, die ihm ein Hinterlassener bietet. Es lässt sich nichts Gewisses darüber sagen, nur Wünsche. Aber diese sind das Heiligste, das ein Mensch hat und gibt es auch nur einen einzigen Erbärmlichen, der sie nicht auf seine Weise hegt und hütet. Elias Canetti
Monolog mit meinen Tรถchtern
Jana Kempe
Hals über Kopf Als sie ihren Blick länger auf ihn gerichtet hatte, erkannte sie in diesem Jungen einen Mann. Einen Mann, dessen Zartheit sie ebenso überraschte, wie seine eigenwillige Art, die Welt sehen zu wollen und sich gleichzeitig doch von ihr fernzuhalten. Übergangslos entstand ein Einverständnis in ihr, eine Hoffnung auf lautlose Verständigung, deren Intensität ihr bis dahin unbekannt gewesen war. Wenn sie für einen Moment an sich herunterschaute, war da ein schwebendes Gefühl, wie eine Hülle, von der nicht auszumachen war, ob sie diesem besonderen Einvernehmen entsprang oder das Einssein überhaupt erst möglich machte.
Hatte sie jemals daran gedacht, Kinder zu bekommen, bevor ihre Töchter geboren wurden? Hatten Eltern jemals mit so großen Augen vor dem Lebenshunger gestanden und sich dann ein Fahrrad geschnappt für eine Runde um den Park oder ein Stück Asphalt in Richtung Asien? Sie konnte sich danach nicht erinnern, sich einen anderen Mann vorgestellt zu haben, bevor dieser andere auftauchte, der mit seinen großen Füßen auf eine erstaunliche Art im Boden zu stehen schien und in einem flüchtigen Moment von Nähe nach etwas gerochen hatte, das vielleicht ihren Aufbruch beschleunigte. Ihr Körper breitete sich aus
neben dem Mann, und in ihr ein Schmerz, eine Empfindung von Zwangsläufigkeit auch, die keinen Aufschub duldete: jetzt war der Moment gekommen, der eine Augenblick, in dem sie gehen konnte. Als sie Abschied nehmen wollte, hatte er die Wange nach oben gezogen, so dass sein linkes Auge wie eingeklemmt wirkte; der bizarre Gedanke an ein Monokel lenkte sie kurz ab. Niemals hatte er so viele Fältchen gehabt, wie in dem Augenblick, als sie das große Mädchen in den Wagen setzte, das kleine von seiner Schulter dem Papa hinhielt für ein Lächeln. Wer hätte sie freisprechen können von den
Falten, fragte sie sich später, als der Tag lange zurücklag, an dem sie spontan von der Allee in das Stoffgeschäft hineingelaufen war, in dem es Meterware gab für einen neuen Vorhang, zartgelb und nicht ganz durchsichtig, ganz wie sie gewollt hatte. Dann war eine Zerbrechlichkeit hinzugetreten, die diffus darauf verwies, was er nicht hatte haben können, als er es brauchte. Sein Lächeln wirkte besonders jungenhaft, sah sie, kindlich sogar, und fand sich für Sekunden in seinen unausgesprochenen Wünschen wieder, von denen sie nicht wusste, ob er sie sich selbst gestand. Was soll man mit anderen reden, hatte er, während gleichzeitig ein alter
Schmerz den Rücken herauf kroch, mit einer eckigen Schulterbewegung gemeint, was soll man mit anderen reden, denen man kaum mehr als mit den Augen folgen kann? Hals über Kopf war er die Treppe hinunter– gestürzt, kurz vor dem Frühdienst einer Nach– barin. In eben diesem Augenblick hatte sie Ärger verspürt, weil der Tag so früh begann, und eine rätselhafte Gier nach Lebendigkeit, die sie hochtrieb aus dem Bett, genauer gesagt: heruntertrieb vom Hochbett, kurz nach sechs Uhr.
Katja Albert
Mike verunglĂźckte am 21. Oktober 2006.
Ihm und seinen TĂśchtern ist diese Arbeit gewidmet.
Monologue with my daughters When their father died, they had the feeling of loss without ever having known him - a feeling that disturbed them greatly. So, I tried to follow his moments in his apartment, in his life, as if I could halt him from disappearing. I created pictures, in which my memories could get lost, and I tried to share these with my daughters. Jana Kempe
As soon as they find their rightful place, the place they could be if they wanted, they will quickly find their existence. Suddenly, very suddenly, you will realise everything about them, whatever you thought you had forgotten; you will hear them speak, touch their hair and see yourself reflected in the shine of their eyes. You might never have been sure of the colour of their eyes, but now it is clear. It is possible that their every aspect will become more intense; it is possible that they will only realise themselves with their sudden shower of light. It is possible that all dead people expect his or her fulfilment in the resurrection that is offered by someone left behind. We don’t know anything for sure, we can only wish. But, surely, this is the most precious thing that a person has. Even if a single person cares not for himself in any other way. Ellias Canetti
Head over Heel When she looked at him for longer, she recognised a man in this boy. A man, whose tenderness surprised her as much as his stubborn way of wanting to be with this world and at the same time to be away from it. Effortlessly, a certainty developed in her, such that the closeness she felt, was one she had not known before. Looking at herself it seemed like something was covering her, like a veil. Whether or not this veil originated from this special certainty in her or whether it was the basis for it she could not say. Had she ever thought of having children before her daughters were born? Do parents ever have this lust for life with such big eyes and then take the bike out for a trip around the park or wherever in the world? She couldn‘t remember thinking of another man before he showed up. This one who stood his ground with his large feet in a particular way and – just for a short time of closeness – smelled of something that made her leave sooner. Her body stretched next to the man and ached with pain, a feeling of something unavoidable that could not be delayed: Now was the time, that moment where she could leave. When she wanted to say goodbye, he pulled one cheek up. His left eye appeared to be squashed – the bizarre
thought of a monocle distracted her briefly. He had never had so many wrinkles as in this moment, when she put the older girl into the buggy and the little one down from his shoulder into his face for a smile. Who could have freed her from the wrinkles? She asked herself later, when that day had long since passed, that day when she visited a shop to buy some curtain material, pale yellow and not quite transparent, just as she wanted it. Then this frailness appeared that refered in a confused way to, when he could not have what he wanted. His smile appeared particularly boyish, she noticed, even childlike. And for some seconds, it reflected his unspoken desires, desires, she was not sure he allowed himself. What should you talk about with other people? He meant by shrugging his shoulders in an angular way while some old pain crept up his back. What should you talk about with other people, who you can hardly follow with your eyes? Head over heel, he fell down the stairs, shortly before his neighbour’s early shift. Just this moment, she felt angry because the day ha some craving for life, which drove her out of bed, or better: down from her loft bed, shortly after six o’clock. Katja Albert
Monologue with my daughters When their father died, they had the feeling of loss without ever having known him - a feeling that disturbed them greatly. So, I tried to follow his moments in his apartment, in his life, as if I could halt him from disappearing. I created pictures, in which my memories could get lost, and I tried to share these with my daughters. Jana Kempe
As soon as they find their rightful place, the place they could be if they wanted, they will quickly find their existence. Suddenly, very suddenly, you will realise everything about them, whatever you thought you had forgotten; you will hear them speak, touch their hair and see yourself reflected in the shine of their eyes. You might never have been sure of the colour of their eyes, but now it is clear. It is possible that their every aspect will become more intense; it is possible that they will only realise themselves with their sudden shower of light. It is possible that all dead people expect his or her fulfilment in the resurrection that is offered by someone left behind. We don’t know anything for sure, we can only wish. But, surely, this is the most precious thing that a person has. Even if a single person cares not for himself in any other way. Ellias Canetti
Head over Heel When she looked at him for longer, she recognised a man in this boy. A man, whose tenderness surprised her as much as his stubborn way of wanting to be with this world and at the same time to be away from it. Effortlessly, a certainty developed in her, such that the closeness she felt, was one she had not known before. Looking at herself it seemed like something was covering her, like a veil. Whether or not this veil originated from this special certainty in her or whether it was the basis for it she could not say. Had she ever thought of having children before her daughters were born? Do parents ever have this lust for life with such big eyes and then take the bike out for a trip around the park or wherever in the world? She couldn‘t remember thinking of another man before he showed up. This one who stood his ground with his large feet in a particular way and – just for a short time of closeness – smelled of something that made her leave sooner. Her body stretched next to the man and ached with pain, a feeling of something unavoidable that could not be delayed: Now was the time, that moment where she could leave. When she wanted to say goodbye, he pulled one cheek up. His left eye appeared to be squashed – the bizarre
thought of a monocle distracted her briefly. He had never had so many wrinkles as in this moment, when she put the older girl into the buggy and the little one down from his shoulder into his face for a smile. Who could have freed her from the wrinkles? She asked herself later, when that day had long since passed, that day when she visited a shop to buy some curtain material, pale yellow and not quite transparent, just as she wanted it. Then this frailness appeared that refered in a confused way to, when he could not have what he wanted. His smile appeared particularly boyish, she noticed, even childlike. And for some seconds, it reflected his unspoken desires, desires, she was not sure he allowed himself. What should you talk about with other people? He meant by shrugging his shoulders in an angular way while some old pain crept up his back. What should you talk about with other people, who you can hardly follow with your eyes? Head over heel, he fell down the stairs, shortly before his neighbour’s early shift. Just this moment, she felt angry because the day ha some craving for life, which drove her out of bed, or better: down from her loft bed, shortly after six o’clock. Katja Albert
Impressum
Zitat von Elias Canetti: Über den Tod Carl Hanser Verlag München; 2003 Druck Druckerei Bunter Hund, Berlin Bindung Katja Zwirnmann, Leipzig Fotos & Layout Jana Kempe Kontakt www.jana-kempe.com contact@jana-kempe.com © Jana Kempe
Dieses Buch ist Bestandteil meiner Abschlussarbeit an der Ostkreuzschule Fotografie und Gestaltung. Ich danke all denen, die mir bei dieser Arbeit mit Rat und Tat zur Seite standen und mir auf verschiedenste Weise Freiraum gewährten. Thank you to Robert Lyons. While being the bridge over troubling water he also didn‘t miss any chance to storm it up.