The Pack

My last assignment from my creative writing class. We were to analyze one of eight artworks and write how we might use them in a story. I chose Joseph Beuys and his art installation - Das Rudel (The Pack). What do you think of his piece? How would you grade my interpretation?

*___*

24 wooden sleds equipped with flashlights, felt rolls, belts, and fat tumbling out of the back of a 1961 Volkswagen bus. How mysterious.

That is until you delve a little deeper. In 1944, Joseph Beuys was shot down in battle. He was rescued by Nomadic Tartars, who dug him out of the snow and wrapped him in fat and felt to warm and insulate him, before they returned him to a German field hospital.

Felt and fat took on lifesaving imagery for him. But what of the other items in this installation? The belts also held significance. In that same crash, the pilot was killed on impact. Beuys swore that by not using safety belts he was saved, as he was thrown from the plane, versus his compatriot who died on impact, still strapped in place.

By the time Beuys was 24, the war ended. After being interned by the British for two months, he was released. Sweet liberty and a return to his first love; the arts. Is that what is captured here? Do the torches light his way to freedom and creativity?

Or is this all just symbolism aggrandized for the observer? Beuys was known to embellish his history and the story of his rescue could have been one of those fictions. Perhaps we need to see the healing elements in this installation, as a means for us to see our own light and direction more clearly?

How long will it take you to slide out of the box and find your path?

***

This installation is fascinating, with so much room for interpretation. The symbolism of the elements are key and that is where the story lies. While a biography of Beuys would be interesting, as he made up his own version of his life, perhaps fiction would be a better way to go with this piece. We create our own truths and that is what Beuys was getting at. It reminds me of Pink Floyd’s The Wall and other dystopian novels that lean heavily on symbolism. I think that direction would hold the most impact with the flashlight peering into the future paired with the life-saving fat and felt images pulling you forward either away from or with the pack. Don’t leave behind the tools from your past, your memories that help you survive, but know which ones to take. The story would have to start with that image and tie those reflections in along the way.

Freedom

On July 18, 1918 in Mvezo, South Africa, a child was born. He was named Rolihlahla, which means “pulling the branch of a tree” in Xhosa. More commonly it is translated as “Troublemaker”. Rolihlahla earned that appellation many times over. 

Rolihlahla was the first in his family to go to school and, typical of the time, was given a Christian name there - Nelson. After completing his primary and secondary education, he went to Fort Hare, the only university that admitted blacks at the time. True to his moniker, it didn’t take long for trouble to find him. He was expelled for taking part in student protests and fled to Johannesburg. It was there that he was initiated into the life of politics that would consume him for the rest of his days.

By 1942, Nelson joined the African National Congress (ANC). He studied law and took every opportunity to speak for the rights of blacks. When the National Party formerly ushered in Apartheid (racial classification and separation) in 1948, he organized protests and strikes. The government noticed. They issued bans, arrests and jail time, but it didn’t stop him. 

In 1964, Nelson was sent to prison on Robben Island. He steadfastly believed in his cause and touted it until his release in 1990. Undeterred by the long years in prison, he commenced talks to end white-minority rule with President F.W. de Klerk. They earned him the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993. By 1994, Nelson Mandela was elected South Africa’s first black president. 

The troublemaker finally made good.

***

This was my historical fiction submission for my creative writing class this week, I felt compelled to share it today, as it was a momentous day in Nelson Mandela's life; he was finally released from prison on February 11th, 1990 after spending 27 years behind bars.

Nelson Mandela believed in the equality of people, no matter their skin colour, and made enormous sacrifices for those beliefs. In so doing, he realized his goals, as Apartheid was struck down in theory by 1991. The multi-racial elections in 1994 were the true celebrations of its end though, as Mandela himself was elected President. What a reward for everything he had done. He was truly a brave and noble figure and accomplished all without inciting racism to battle racism, or bloodshed to vindicate shed blood.

South Africa, and indeed the world, is richer for having had Madiba in it.

- 46664 -

Nelson Mandela, Speech from the Dock, 20 April 1964

“I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”

Flying Free

I stood in the yard and gazed up into the sky. The cerulean heavens held puffs of gauzy white clouds drifting through it. I longed to be one with the endless expanse beyond my grasp. If only I could just reach up and touch it…

Thick air slid between my fingers as I stretched up into the ethers. With a thrust, I pushed my hands towards the earth. Again and again I reached, shoving the earth away from me. Slowly my feet slipped away from their earthly bounds. I was free.

With huge shoves and sweeps I propelled upwards. Rooftops approached, then passed as treetops were left below. A leaf fluttered as I soared by. My aerial breaststroke broke the confines of gravity and it seemed I’d always been capable of this freedom, just unaware of how to attain it.

With a kick I leveled off. My arms stretched out beside me, the wings I always knew I had. I was higher than the birds. Far below me people pointed skyward, jabbing fingers into the sky, their words lost on the wind behind me.

Out of the corner of my eye, my gaze caught a glint of light. I tilted into the wind. Unseen rudders pointed me in its direction. Drifting, I sailed towards the unseen object.

As the ground approached, I was assailed by a loud woof. I vigorously flailed my arms once more and jetted out of the dog’s reach.

I was safe, for now...

***

Assignment #2 for my Creative Writing class;
   - Theme: vivid dream

Anyone else have flying dreams? Have you had a dream that stuck with you long after you woke? 

What would you rate mine out of 15?

touch the clouds
as they pass you by
there's power in them dreams

Silly Sausage

He approached us with a squint in his eye and a low growl. My eyes darted left and right, looking for escape. I ran right to freedom. My sister veered left, right into his path. He sprang towards her, as she shrieked. There was no way to outrun his grasp.

He wrapped his big arms around her and lifted her into the air. I looked on, unable to react. She was at his mercy.

A blanket lay draped over the nearby couch. He grasped it and threw it on the ground, followed closely by my poor sister. She wriggled in his grasp, but was doomed to her fate. A chortle escaped him.

He laid her at the edge of the fringed blanket and tucked the end underneath her. Then he proceeded to roll her into its soft embrace. It was too much. I cried out and lunged at him, but his laughter drowned out all noise. I was no match for his strength. I watched helpless as she was spun into the blanket’s hold.

When he reached the end of the roll, he stood up. Her head and little stumps of legs stuck out either end. It was hopeless to even attempt escape.

With a snicker he tickled her little bare feet until she screamed with laughter.

A belly laugh erupted from his frame as my uncle chucked her under the chin.

“My silly sausage,” he remarked to our delight.

 “My turn,” I cried!

***

To challenge myself and work on improving my writing I have enrolled in an online creative writing class. Our first assignment was to write a 250-word piece on a childhood memory. The class has commented and offered their two-cents worth.

Now it is your turn. Bring on the constructive criticism. How would you grade me?