Sing to Me of the Man, Muse…¹

Maria Poprzęcka

Muse — model — lover. This is the stereotype perpetuated by countless novels about real or fictional artists, fictionalised vies romancées, sentimental television series about the torments of creation and tabloid sensations about the exuberant life of bohemia. The Muse: an indispensable yet secondary figure in bohemian legend, sharing the difficult beginnings of an artistic career, discarded for a younger woman when success arrives, at times taking revenge in compromising memoirs in which she exposes not herself but the pettiness of artistic greatness. The academic artist’s nude model, hypocritically described as “inspiration”; the Surrealists’ erotic gadget; the object of the avant-garde’s sadistic destruction. A sexual object. An objectified body. A mute piece of studio equipment like an easel or mannequin. A tool like a brush, chisel or camera. And in the popular imagination, simply a naked woman who consorts with artists.

It took Łódź Kaliska to restore to the Muses — yes, with a capital letter — the lost honour of the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. To remind us of their knowledge of divine and human affairs, of things past and things to come. Of their gift of prophecy.

In Hesiod’s Theogony, the Muses descend in a dancing procession from Olympus to Mount Helicon to teach the poet his song.

In Anka Leśniak’s film, the Muses arrive to sing the praises of Łódź Kaliska. They need neither Mount Helicon nor the Hippocrene spring; a cubbyhole, the corner between a toilet and a bathtub, or a cluttered patch of studio is enough.

Nothing can stop the Muses’ song.

In the chorus of Titanides, Clio — the Muse of history — takes the lead. Assisted by her sisters, she recounts the history of the Łódź Kaliska group. Its beginnings are legendary and obscure: “…It was long ago… It was a very, very long time ago… I remember, I remember, but I don’t remember…”

Clio’s task is not easy, because “there was no documentation; no one cared about it”. Although the memory inherited from her mother Mnemosyne does not fail her, the Muse — mindful that her attributes are the scroll and the book — nevertheless attempts to record the course of events: “Some plein-air, the men were talking, so I took pictures… I recorded them; sometimes it was on an ordinary Kasprzak cassette recorder, and the tapes went missing… When I saw they’d had a little to drink, I simply took a sheet of paper and wrote things down. Many golden thoughts, such as ‘nothing calms you like the history of China’, would simply have gone with the wind if I hadn’t sat down and written them… When books were being published, I brought in my notes and suddenly they turned out to be good, so they went into the book. And I still have a great many… buried…”²

So what was it like? “It was our shared life… The formula for being together was wonderful… It had a slight flavour of the underground; art somehow felt at home underground. We weren’t conscious of it… There were excellent exhibitions… Ms Czartoryska from the Museum of Art came and bought everything on the spot…”³

Objective and impartial Clio does not, however, create an apotheosis. She does not conceal the shameful pages of history: “Earlier, hardly anyone wanted to undress… most of the naked figures were cut from photographs in foreign magazines, because we didn’t have any here.” Her artistic assistant adds: “the nudity is becoming increasingly shallow”.⁴

In constructing the grand narrative, Clio remains conscious of history’s traps, manipulations and abuses: “The theory of the Muses began to be written back into our story retrospectively, and we didn’t always like it.”⁵

More recent history is easier to grasp: “In ’95, I no longer remember whether it was spring or autumn, a film was going to be made and a newspaper advertisement appeared seeking a large-breasted woman. A colleague from work said it was meant for me…”⁶

Here Calliope enters with epic poetry: “In the grounds of the old Prussian barracks, nearby, there was a disused military training ground whose entire obstacle course had nevertheless survived. One of the men’s ideas was for all the Muses to complete the course. It is a difficult task in any case, and if you do it naked and barefoot, it is doubly difficult. Nevertheless, we succeeded and I consider it a great achievement for us all. Above all, we all survived.”⁷

Then Thalia enters in her comic mask: “Kwietniewski almost suffocated me with whipped cream. First Swedish salad, then yoghurt. Exotic! Exotic! And then whipped cream… simply ecstasy.”⁸ Euterpe attempts to introduce a lyrical note: “Sometimes there is a little laughter; there is nothing sexual about it.”⁹ Polyhymnia, Muse of sacred poetry, dares to interject: “There was a series in the 1990s — famous paintings. There was a Descent from the Cross…”¹⁰

Melpomene’s tone, however, is tragic: “They cope much worse with this freedom […] Laughter… It is like someone laughing at Chaplin films. And it is the inability to come to terms with being imperfect, with time passing, with our need for girls, girls, ever new girls… Failure is inscribed in the art of Łódź Kaliska: they will never succeed, well, perhaps after death…”¹¹

By way of consolation, Erato, Muse of love poetry, offers the fullest proof of the Muses’ prophetic gift: “Once, on Freedom Square, I prayed to God: Lord, let me have an artist for a husband! He needn’t be handsome, but let him be interesting and do at least a little physical work… And absolutely everything came true! Kwietniewski!”¹²

Terpsichore, Muse of dance, remains silent. She has already fulfilled herself: half naked, wearing pink tights, she stood in the Uffizi Gallery before Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, posing a serious challenge to the notorious blonde goddess. Urania, with her compass and globe, hides somewhere in a corner, sensing that she does not fit the company, even though it includes architects. Although perhaps the precision apparatus for measuring the buoyancy of talent was her work?

The Muses know their rank and significance: “For Łódź Kaliska, the Muse is inspiration.”¹³ “We simply

worked with them.”¹⁴ “We are irreplaceable!”¹⁵ And they sing in harmonious chorus. They feel true sisterly affection for one another. Only once does an argument erupt among them. It concerns victory in the buoyancy casting. Breasts submerged in containers displaced liquid, which was channelled into a graduated vessel and measured. Who won: Erato? Calliope? Let us forgive the Muses this quarrel, for no trivial matter was at stake: the magnitude of talent. Yet great talent alone is not enough for a Muse. Clio assesses the matter soberly: “No one remembers those faces, just the tits, and that didn’t work as a Muse.”¹⁶

The Muses, guardians of the arts, join in singing of Łódź Kaliska’s creative process: “the sessions look dreadful… chaotic… you have to wait… pose in extremely uncomfortable positions… general spontaneity… there is usually an unbelievable mess… generally there is some broad outline… it emerges during the process… we’re doing something, but none of us knows where it’s going… and the title comes even later… they have it all in their heads, and the Muses show outwardly what the men have in their heads and what the women have in theirs… that kind of interaction… it is hard, hard work…”

What future do the Muses foretell for Łódź Kaliska? “Now anything can be done, so I don’t know…¹⁷ Will it move towards ever older Muses? Will they manage to persuade ever younger girls? Because I cannot imagine it.”¹⁸

They also agree in their conclusions: “The primacy of woman, the importance of woman, her role in society.”

“Everything Łódź Kaliska does is a glorification of woman.”¹⁹

Or perhaps simply: ŁÓDŹ KALISKA IS A WOMAN.

Homer, The Odyssey
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