impossibility of being

Diamond’s Women

Plate 27: A middle-aged woman sits on a wooden chair. She wears a straw hat, checked dress, and a scarf tied around her neck, and looks at the photographer with gentle eyes. She doesn’t seem to be cold, yet a thick blanket covers her shoulders, its folds resemble the background drapery. In her hands lays a body of a dead bird. Title: Woman holding a dead bird. Plate 32: A woman sits sideways to the lens, despite apparent efforts to enforce a frontal pose. She is slim and her body, dressed in a simple dress, is wrapped entirely in a thick, stiff blanket. Her hair is pinned up tightly, and a wreath of leaves and twigs is planted on her head. Her face is turned away as she stubbornly refuses to face the camera. Title: Psychiatric patient dressed as Ophelia. The author of these, and numerous other women portraits is Hugh Welch Diamond. He was a British psychiatrist and head of the Female Ward for Surrey County Lunatic Asylum from 1848 to 1858. Diamond is considered the father of psychiatric photography for his work in visually cataloguing mental illness*. 

However, the history of its representation goes back much further than psychiatry or photography itself, as attempts to visually depict 'madmen' and 'hysterics' escaping social norms date back to ancient times. As the epitome of animalism, possession, stupidity, divine punishment, eroticism or "convulsive beauty" in Western history, the mentally ill represent both an object of stigma and voyeuristic curiosity*. The paintings, engravings and photographs of them, with which the history of art is interwoven, bear witness to both the eternal need to make the invisible - visible and the persistent impossibility of doing so. 

It is, therefore, impossible for the world where the grass is green and the sky is blue to meet, let alone depict the oniristic underwater hallucination of, what was once called, ‘a lunacy’. A barrier between the experience of the graspably explainable and the drowningly un-real is a barrier between depictable and undepictable, the being and un-being, the retraceable and un-retraceable. No tangible artifacts can be retrieved from a black hole.

The Impossibility

Here I am, in bed, faced with the sheer impossibility of being. Not merely in a personal sense, although me lying in bed whilst not exactly convinced I actually am is undoubtedly a starting point. There isn’t overwhelming evidence of it really, and having been stuck in the un-being loophole for this long I’m almost certain I might actually need it to live. I seem to put all my mental efforts to pursue being; I closely observe those I manage to catch in the midst of being, make a mental note of their every move hoping that if I could only embody their being, my un-being would be cured. Their liveliness feeds my mental algorithm of being, but every attempt at its execution ends in the hollowness and deafness of yet another succumbness, only ever more clownish and disillusioned. 

I would then usually get struck by a sudden enlightenment, thinking that everything I need is inside me and I shall look no further; nothing will save me but myself. I then take a before-me, a when-all-was-well me as a reference point and try to reverse the last ten of my updates, where the bugs may well have been fixed but there’s not much of anything left at this point. A painfully green Windows wallpaper just as real as my being, and a trash bin to adhere to my reductionist urges constituting an attempt to save myself. Unsurprisingly, it turns out my being is nowhere to be found, not where I once was; I already left. Enlightenment disintegrates; I skip a few epochs. I re-enter my nihilist era. 

As they say, before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water, after enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. 

And so here I am again, in bed, faced with the sheer impossibility of being.

Published in
How do you remember anything? as part of Kiezshätze, a multidisciplinary art project for young people with and without disability. Berlin, 2024.


*Footnotes:

[1] Wetzler, Sara. "Hugh Diamond, the father of psychiatric photography–psychiatry in pictures." The British Journal of Psychiatry 219, no. 2 (2021): 460-461.

[2] Skrabek, Aleksandra. "Między ekspresją artystyczną a ekspresją faktu. Jean-Martin Charcot i Aby Warburg wobec ikonografii szaleństwa." rocznik historii sztuki 39 (2014): 109-124.

[3] Eisenhauer, Jennifer. "A visual culture of stigma: Critically examining representations of mental illness." op.cit.

[4]Sontag, Susan. Illness as metaphor, op.cit.

[5] Stawowy, Joanna. "Niepełnosprawność w historii sztuki oraz anty-ableizm sztuki współczesnej." op.cit.

[6] https://dedrickconway.medium.com/brief-overview-historical-overview-of-psychiatric-photography-499d93d809a3, dostęp: 11.04.2023.

[7] Jacobs, Susan, and Joseph Quinn. "Cultural reproduction of mental illness stigma and stereotypes." Social Science & Medicine 292 (2022): 114552.

blood of the lamb

Raised among tongues of fire, into the Great Battle I was born. Tales of the Harlot rang in my ear, and thoughts of the seven-headed beast put me to sleep. I was in this world, but not of this world. Set and ready, for any day a great ball of fire would devour the Earth, and I, along with all God’s Children, would be taken to the Kingdom of Heaven, where the wolf shall live with the lamb.

My parents were followers of the Church when I was born; my father was a pastor and most of my family had been converted by then. Our reality was embedded in the religious fabric of our isolated community, with daily conversations about apocalyptic creatures and supernatural experiences. Immersed in biblical mythology merged with the holy visions of the founding figure, we adhered to strict rules that guided our reality: one in which the invisible was as present as matter. My parents and I left the church when I was 12.

The project is a deeply personal exploration of my experiences growing up withing the confines of the Church and its psychological impact. I revisit the concept of sin and holiness, once again facing the fear of the apocalypse and the hope of salvation, trying to reconcile the deadly sin of our leaving the Church. On the photographs from my childhood, all followers are symbolically washed by the Blood of the Lamb. My face remains uncovered and unredeemed; the face of the condemned, the lost soul, the sinner. 

I remember the Blood and Flesh standing on a table, covered with a white tablecloth. A matzah baked by my mum symbolized the Body, and red grape juice symbolized the Blood waiting for the pastor to give each baptized follower to eat and drink from it. I never could, still too young to be baptized.

Krew Baranka

Wychowałam się wśród Płomieni Ognia, w Wielki Bój wrodziłam się. Do snu słuchałam o Bestii Wychodzącej z Morza a spacerom towarzyszyły opowieści o Wielkiej Wszetecznicy. Byłam na tym świecie, ale nie byłam z tego świata, czekając, aż lada dzień ognista kula strawi Ziemię, a ja jako jedno z Bożych Dzieci, wzięta będę do Królestwa Niebieskiego, gdzie cielę i lew paść się będą społem.

Kiedy się urodziłam, moi rodzice byli wyznawcami Kościoła; ojciec był pastorem i większość rodziny została już wtedy na niego nawrócona. Nasza rzeczywistość była głęboko osadzona w religijnej strukturze odizolowanej społeczności, gdzie to, co niewidzialne, było rzeczywiste jak materia. Rodzice i ja opuściliśmy Kościół, kiedy miałam 12 lat.

Ten projekt jest moim powrotem do doświadczeń dorastania w Kościele i pozostałości jego psychologicznego wpływu. Raz jeszcze poddaję się ocenie według skali grzechu i świętości i konfrontuję się ze strachem przed apokalipsą. Na nowo oswajam śmiertelny akt buntu, którym było odejście. Na zdjęciach z mojego dzieciństwa wszyscy wyznawcy są symbolicznie obmyci we Krwi Baranka, tylko moja twarz pozostaje odsłonięta i nieodkupiona – twarz potępionej, zbłąkanej, grzesznicy.

Pamiętam Krew i Ciało stojące na stole zasłanym białym obrusem i przykryte białą serwetą. Ciało symbolizowała maca upieczona przez moją mamę; Krew – sok z czerwonych winogron. Czekały na moment ceremonii, w którym pastor da każdemu ochrzczonemu z nich spożyć. Ja nigdy nie mogłam, za młoda, by zostać ochrzczona.

bless them rebels

For a year I have worked with school kids who experience disability. I kept the artifacts of tenderness and trust along with diary entries from that time.

The room where people pace up and down flapping hands, drop on their knees in lament, hide their face in their hands, shout threats they’ll apologise in tears for later, talk to themselves quietly, circle around ephemerally as if hovering above the floor, comfort one another, share the last chocolate, ask about and remember your entire family tree; 

the room of people with eyes fixed on the ungraspable, thrown about by their love and anger, beings who want and don’t want their hand held;
is the room I belong to, the room I understand and am understood in, the room where there is space for being the being.


Undated
„Dear future me, you have no friends
I feel lonely
I look forward to my death
I feel worried about nothing
In 3rd year I will di
Yours sincerely, N***

I cried at work today, that letter sent me back home.

8/11/2023
I look at the kids and see individuals, all so different. And at break I watch them, taken aback, thinking: they’re so small. Children!
It’s cause I don’t see the kids in them, I see people.

They like me, not sure why. I like those who flip chairs the best. 

6/1/24
 They moved me to a different class again. I can’t say I’m surprised, and my disappointment doesn’t allow me to take it as a result of a complicated funding situation in this wild system that couldn’t care less about the disabled. I take it as another shuffling behind the curtains, 
                                               personally personally personally

And the choice has been made; this is my last month. My being there makes no sense to me if I can’t sit beside my rebel boys, receive their insults, tell them ‘you can do it’, take them down off of the lockers, have autumn leaves and glitter thrown on my head, chase them up and down the stairs, listen as they tell me about their hardass families. Stay beside them, wipe their tears, transmute their anger into togetherness, at a table, at a desk, on the playground, on the concrete. 

Furious boys are the only ones I want to work with, I want to sing them lullabies. Furious boys I understand. I am one.


Undated
At RE, *** explained Jesus with her disengaged, tired, dissociated voice that pretends politeness. Jesus approached the fishermen Andrew and Simon and ordered them to leave everything behind and follow him. And they left everything and went. 


8/1/24
Bless the desperate fury of the autists.

 „I want to cut out my brain and buy a new one. This one is not working” R*** said.

It was a good day, a day with small people who live on this earth partially at most, whose life goes on someplace else.
It’s the rational people I fear.

10/1/23
R*** made his own grave out of Lego blocks today. R*** tried to choke himself. R***’s dad shouted at me.

After two days of him being tossed around in inner torment, hitting, throwing, shouting, hurting himself, and running away, then apologizing, apologizing, apologizing, and saying that he will die. That he is an idiot. That he hates this country.

R***, only the level of unyielding self-expression is what makes us different.

I cooked today, ate more than just bread. Personal success #1.

*** and *** told me, that R*** is much calmer with me, that it’s because I’m calm and never raise my voice. Personal success #2.

My kids from Y6 don’t hug me anymore. Only T*** greets me with a cheerful Good morning Miss Daria, and he’s not one of mine, he’s a little mischeif from nextdoor. 

K*** likes me now, wants my attention. 
I’m much lonelier than they are. I want approval of my kids much more than of any adult. 

18/1/24
The act of kindness is only valid when one is capable of aggression. When one has a choice and able to make the most of it, when one has both tenderness and aggression to choose from.

I’m thinking about Y6 and how tender they were with R***. About acts of kindness and how aggression could be a result of self-respect, that one who doesn’t respect themselves wouldn’t be able to share an act of kindness without expecting anything in return.

Z*** with a cross made out of planks dug out from under the fence.  

- So you’re a priest now?

- No, I’ll just repel anyone. 

I miss him. I miss those that try to survive with any means necessary, aggressively and by their own reasoning. Those who fight and not beg. Never refuse to take part in any upheaval, never fall asleep in themselves.

That used to be the meaning of my day. The most difficult chunk of work, the most meaningful.

the best possible

The highest chance of recovery and the lowest risk of death. Breast cancer is the best possible that could happen to my mum, they said.

A family, three girls. We laugh together but try not to cry so as not to worry the other two. Because after all we can do it, we just need to be strong and everything will be fine.

Definietely.

about me

(she/her) I am a visual artist and researcher based between Bristol and Kraków, working on the intersection of art and psychology.  I explore themes related to disability and mechanisms of control through visual and performative methods. I stage and document embodied, collaborative enactments enabling experiences of connection and agency, and work with artifacts and archives treated as evidence and a carrier of collective memory. My work challenges control structures and reimagines narratives of female illness, drawing on personal experience of disability and severe religious control.

Education
2024-2026        MA Film, Television and Photographic Art and New Media,  ITF Opava, Czechia 
2023-2024        Postgrad. Data Science, WSB NLU, Poland
2021-2022        MSc Experimental Psychology, University of Bristol, Bristol, United Kingdom 
2019-2020        Photography Mentorship Program, Sputnik Photos, Warsaw, Poland
2018-2023        BA Film, Television and Photographic Art and New Media, ITF Opava, Czechia
2014-2017        BA Journalism and Social Communication, Jagiellonian University, Kraków, Poland
 
Selected experience
2023-2024         Disabilities Assistant, Team Educate, Bristol
2024                   Theatre of the Oppressed workshop series guest facilitator, Bristol
2023                   Guest lecturer, Academy of Photography, Krakow


Exhibitions
2023                   Online exhibition, God’s Children, Der Greif, Guest Room: Marina Paulenka
2022                   Solo exhibition, The Best Possible, Lokstallen, Rødberg, Norway
2021                   Group exhibition 30 years of ITF Opava, Month of Photography in Opole, Galeria Sztuki Współczesnej, Poland 
2021                   Group exhibition Opava school of photography, Galeria Sztuki Współczesnej BWA, Katowice, Poland
2021                   Group exhibition, Opava Girls / Opava Women, 31st Annual Month of Photography in Bratislava, Slovakia
2021                   Group exhibition, 30 years of ITF Opava, Dům umění, st. Václav Church and KUPE Gallery in Opava, Czechia
2020                   Group exhibition, Sputnik Photos Mentoring Graduates 2019-2020, Social Center of Photography, Warsaw, Poland
2017                   Group exhibition, Academy of Photography Graduates 2016-2017, Kraków, Poland

Publications
2024                   How do you remember anything? Kiezschätze, Berlin
2023                   The Image of Mental Illness in Contemporary Photography, FPF Silesian University in Opava 
2021                   30 Years of the Institute of Creative Photography, FPF Silesian University in Opava catalogue
2020                   NO.9 Sputnik Photos Mentoring Program photobook

contact

please reach out via

email dizworska@proton.me

instagram @izworks

whatsapp/signal +44 7928559278