Life? Or Theater?

One of my favorite artists, Charlotte Salomon, posed this question: is it life? Or is it theater?  She made around 800 small gouache paintings depicting her tragic life and secured it in a book.

In 2007, I visited Amsterdam.  I was traveling by myself and staying in a hostel.  It was cheap and clean and cramped.  I shared a bunk bed in a room the size of a large closet with 2 additional bunk beds.  I was the only American and, surprisingly, the oldest traveler.  There was the lone ginger-headed and cheerful Aussie teen girl who slept on the bottom bunk.  There were the Aussie brother and sister sharing another bunk and a young English couple who tittered when I said “cell phone” rather than “mobile”.  Behind their backs, the Aussies called them “the Limeys” in a way that seemed almost affectionate rather than derogatory. 

Charlotte Salomon’s precious book is held in the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam.  When I made my plans to go to Amsterdam, this was one place I had to go.

My hostel was farther into the city and it took 2 zones worth of strippenkart to get to the museum, only to walk a few blocks and find the building composed of multiple old synagogues.  After searching through the religious artifacts, that were symbolic that they survived the Holocaust, I found no sign of Life? Or Theater?

It was only a glance in a corner when I came to the realization that the exhibition was going through remodeling and the book was not in fact on display.  I took a step beyond a velvet rope in hopes to sneak a glance at the book.  I longed to experience its momentum through its mass and size.

It was not there.

Instead an empty glass case only hinted at its former occupant. 

I suppose I could have spoken up and pleaded and asked the museum staff if I could see the paintings since I had come so far to visit it.  But I didn’t.

I picked up a CD of its digitized images in the gift shop.  The middle-aged woman who worked at the gift shop was intrigued by my presence and I could feel her gaze on my back as I looked at postcards: we rarely see young people here.  Even when paying for a bookmark and the CD, I could tell she wasn’t sure what language to speak.  Dutch? Hebrew? English?  She smiled kindly to me when I spoke English, as I only knew a handful of basic Dutch formalities, my Hebrew non-existent.

When I left the museum, I had a tiny bit of disappointment.  I didn’t get to see the famous piece that resonated with me.  I traveled over 5000 miles to see a piece of art that wasn’t there.

In its own trickery and timing, something surfaced within me.  I felt the elusive quality of life’s events.  This was a taste.  A tease. 

Sometimes things just don’t work out.  Sometimes things just don’t make sense.

I ask myself everyday though, not necessarily intending to receive an answer: so what is it then? Is it life? Or is it theater?

Postscript: on this same trip, the Rijksmuseum was also going through remodeling, so I saw little of that one too.  However, the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum were awe-inspiring.  I also found out recently that the Dutch no longer use strippenkart to take the tram.  It was basically a line of skinny perforated tickets that got stamped with times and then torn off when expired.  It seemed a bit old-fashioned at the time, but now knowing I have unused tickets hiding somewhere in my belongings makes me feel like I have a piece of something historic.