My Mother/Myself

My Mother/Myself is the title of a series of photographs that I created several years ago with some of my mother's dresses. In this series, I gave visual representation to my deep sorrow at having to bare witness to my mother's suffering from the later stages of Parkinson's Disease. 

My Mother/Myself 1 by Ingrid Mida 

My mother Magdalene Masak passed away on August 13, 2014 and her obituary was published in The Globe and Mail. I take much comfort from the fact that her suffering has ended and that I was with her for the last hour of her life. 

Magdalene Holzhaus Masak (about 1950)

This is the text from my tribute that I will give this afternoon at her memorial service:

I would like to begin by thanking everyone who came today to honour my mother as well as those who have sent their condolences. A special thank you goes to Reverend Claudine for being here with me shortly after my mom passed away to give her blessings on my mom’s journey to heaven, as well as for her beautiful service today.

If you knew my mom or spent any time with her, you knew that she was very particular and wanted things to be just so…. I suppose I’ve inherited that trait from her, and it doesn’t make us easy people to love. So a heartfelt thank you to all of you that loved my mom and that were patient and kind to her.  

My mother was born into difficult circumstances in Germany in 1931, but rarely spoke of the hardships she knew as a child. She never knew her father and she grew up without her mother’s presence or love, and suffered from both privation and starvation during the war. She came to Canada with the hope of a better life and learned English while working as a nanny to a family in Montreal. It was in Montreal that she met Frank Masak at a dance and the rest is history as they say.

Privation during the war made my mom very thrifty. Nothing was ever to be thrown away if it could be reused or recycled. She was green, before that even was a thing.

Education was especially important to my mom since she was denied the opportunity to go to university. She remade herself at age 40 when went back to high school to earn her diploma and then studied at Seneca College to become a library technician. She paid Tom and Peter to cook dinner and we all adjusted to having a working mom. After the arrival of her 7 grandchildren, my mother took a keen interest in their studies and loved to share the news when one of them brought home a stellar report card or a prize. She seemed particularly proud when I told her about my upcoming book and that I would begin my PhD studies in art history this fall.

My mother loved music. She took me to concerts as a child and we stood at the back of the concert hall or up in the rafters listening to classical music whenever and wherever we could. She took much joy in the musical accomplishments of her grandchildren, in particular Jon, who played piano as well as cello for her often.

My mother’s life was profoundly altered by Parkinson’s Disease. Sadly it was less than two years after my father died of complications of Parkinson’s Disease that she was diagnosed with the same cruel fate, and it robbed her of many joys that she might otherwise have partaken with her beloved grandchildren. She was deeply embarrassed by the tremors and she avoided joining in on family celebrations if she was having a bad day. Mike, Jon, Conrad, Glen, Matthew, Gaby and Geneva were deprived of her smile, even though she was feisty and spirited until the end.

There are so many people that deserve a special thank you. This place, her final home, was a good place – filled with people who showed her much kindness and patience. There are so many of you who ministered to her with such love and tenderness, including Violet, Sangeetha, Angela, Fely, Emily, Citas, Isah and Lina. I bow my hat to you for being so gentle, so kind and so tender with her. You were her angels on the ground – giving her the special care that she needed and the love that she craved.

I would also like to give extend my deepest thanks to all those that helped support me through this difficult journey with my mom, especially my dear friends Guela, Linda, Tracy and Maura. Thank you to my sons Mike and Jon, who were ever so patient with my mom and would visit her on their own, something that brought her much happiness, especially when Jon spoke or read to my mom in German, her native language. And I must also thank the love of my life, my husband Dan, for loving me through it all and holding me up when I did not think I could continue to bare witness to my mom’s profound suffering.

Not long after she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, I promised my mom that I would be there for her in the end. I found that journey over 13 years to be very difficult at times, but I am so grateful that I could be with my mom at the end for her last hour of life here on earth. I read Psalm 23 and her other favourite passages that she had underlined in her bible, and I whispered to her that we loved her and that it was time to join Peter and my father in heaven.

Her parting words to me on Saturday were “I love you more than you know”. It is those words that I share with you today, for although she might have said them sparingly, it was love that lived in her heart and that is her legacy. Her love lives on in each of us.

Creative Process Journal: My Double

My Double (Work in Progress) by Ingrid Mida 2012

This is the doll that I have decided is my double. I found her in Paris and she is normally dressed in a burgundy knee-length sheath dress with a matching coat and pill box hat. She is smaller than a Barbie, not as tall, not as busty nor as curvy. Her hips are narrow and she is petite, as I am. Her glasses are a match for my own.

My research -- into the uncanny, fashion dolls, wunderkammer, and the museum as a metaphor -- will be translated into designing two outfits for my double that will be placed inside a glass "coffin". The outfits will be constructed from scraps of material from my mother's dresses that I photographed in the series "My Mother/Myself".

My Mother's Dresses

Clothing evokes memories. Many women have several dresses or suits hanging in the back of the closet that they cannot give away. These garments  embody a memory of a special time or belonged to someone they loved, like a mother, grandmother or sister.

A dress is literally a metaphor for a woman. It is a second skin, forming a protective barrier between one’s self and the world and the choices of style and material provide clues as to one’s self image, social class, profession and identity.

This past winter I photographed some evening dresses belonging to my mother. Sadly, the lovely purple satin dress she is wearing in the photo above was not in her closet. But there were several others including a gold brocade dress with matching jacket, a copper coloured Indian silk dress, a black lace dress and a long silver brocade dress. I did a series of documentary photos as well as a set of photographs in ravine settings hoping to evoke a sense of haunted beauty in bleak and barren surroundings. To see selected images from that series, please visit my website.

Many people who saw these photographs of my mother's dresses were reminded of a specific dress that their mother or grandmother wore. And sometimes that dress was still hanging in the back of a closet, too precious to give away. It seems that clothes can embody the essence of a person. 

I wish I had a story to tell about my mother wearing this beautiful brocade dress. It came with a matching jacket and is in pristine condition. I don't recall seeing my mother wearing it, but it clearly meant something to her as I found a scrap of matching fabric in a drawer the other day. 

The style of dress is one that I wear often. Classic, fitted and elegant, this cut of dress suits my figure and I have many versions of this type of dress in my closet. Although I would never have described my mother as a fashionista, clearly at one time in her life, she took great care with her dress.

I only have a few items belonging to my mother that are worthy of being photographed - not enough to have a show or write a book. However, I realize that there are many beautiful dresses and suits hanging in closets that have stories. I hope to find some women in Toronto and southern Ontario who will let me photograph some of those dresses and record the stories which someday will be featured in a gallery show. 

I also hope that there are people around the world who might also wish to participate in an online version of this project. If you wish to share memories about a special dress, either one that belongs to you or someone you knew, please contact me at artismylife@mac.com.