I remember an essay I wrote as a seven-year-old schoolgirl. The title of the essay was âMy Sister.â It consisted of a list of incorrect words that came out of my sisterâs mouth. She was only four years old at the time and would say things like âtoothbreastâ instead of toothbrush, âmother-in-warâ instead of mother-in-law, and âwashingmeanâ instead of washing machine. My sister was a fascinating language machine. âIâm happy I have a little sisterââ that was the sentence with which I finished my essay.
I had always been more of a writer than a painter, even though I wanted to be an artist. I once tried to paint a picture of a woman; it bore the working title âPortrait of a Lady.â
I had long since moved away from traditional portrait painting, but didnât yet know what else one could do when one wanted to capture a face.
What did this lady look like? Whom did she resemble? At first I thought of Catherine Deneuve and I borrowed a few of her films from the video shop. I tried to entice the actress off the screen and capture her in the painting. But my brush drowned in the flowing pictures of the film.
Her name is Piroschka because, later on, when I asked her what she would like to be called in a novel, she gave me this name.
But maybe I hadnât heard the name properly because I couldnât find it in my dictionary of names.
What am I supposed to do? Maybe I should just say P; P for permanent and provisional, poetic and practical.
When I began meeting P on a daily basis, the resemblance between her and the actress disappeared.
I saw within her face a silken face, a polished face, an illuminated face and many different faces within her face. The more I saw her, the less I was able to say what she really looked like.
* * *
I took a photograph of her standing in front of an Armenian grocerâs. Green lettuce leaves shone in the sunlight, oranges and bananas gleamed, but in the picture Pâs face looked completely different from the way she had looked to me.
* * *
I always bought some of the Armenian cracker bread known as ak-mak: a magical name. Through the sound of this name I could see P standing in front of the store much more clearly than in the photo.
* * *
At the time I was spending four months as an artist-in-residence in Massachusetts.
I was happy to be free of Caenis, the faded womenâs cafĂ© in Berlin where I had worked as a waitress five days a week. The women who came to the cafĂ© were not uninteresting, but their language too often disappointed me. It sounded cold but loud at the same time; bold but without critical edge; cut off from the magical world of material objects; anxiously pompous and possessive.
An old friend of mine worked in Boston as a musician and the other women who worked in the cafĂ© assumed that I was visiting him. But he wasnât the reason I had crossed the Atlantic. Our association had come to an end when we had had a serious argument while preparing an installation.
I secretly wished for a new adventure of the senses in the womenâs bookshop in Massachusetts whose mysterious website I had seen by chance on the Internet.
It had become impossible for me to fall in love in Berlin. The sentences that sprang into my ears had an immediate cooling effe...