Landscapes/Cityscapes:The Art of Hearts

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The Art of Hearts
by Anna Stewart

I missed the big party. On November 9th in 1989, the grand Brandenburg Gate, separating East and West Berlin, opened for the first time since 1961. Back then, when the first barbed wire fences were erected on a summer day, parents whose children lived across town were surgically cut off from any contact. I could imagine the tears of lost dreams, lost children, lost hope. The happiness and relief that it was finally over must have also been filled with pain. Even a year later when I arrived, the pain was still palpable. I could see it in the old men’s faces as they displayed for sale their wartime mementos-medals and coins and uniforms on flimsy card tables in front of the Gate.

A year after the gate opened, when I arrived with my husband, the wall was mostly gone between East and West Berlin. To people like me who lived on the other side of the world, I figured that once the wall was dismantled, Germany would be unified. After all, I saw the pictures of people dancing, hugging and riding bikes on the Wall. After 28 years of living with the Wall, Germany would instantly become one. The idea was wonderful and long overdue. But of course it was not so easy.

Some murals might last only days before another artist made their contribution over it. I liked art this way--public, loud and temporary.

Walking into East Berlin from West Berlin was like walking into another century. My husband and I took the subway across the still visible border. On the west side, the U-bahn (subway) was clean, modern and had a flat rate of about $1.50 per ride. We bravely rode to the newly opened east terminal and walked out into a dungeon. The lighting was minimal, the floors concrete. No advertisements adorned the walls. We heard only our own footsteps. The train had arrived from the west, but nothing else had. It felt dangerous being this close to oppression. The old green token machine for the return trip took pennies. It cost eight cents to go back. I could find plenty of analogies in the differences and so few in the connections.

But I was not a German. We walked up into the brisk fall air expecting to see the tired faces of the poor but they were not the fair-skinned faces of Germans who had suffered so. Instead we found the dark-skinned faces of the Turkish people who had come to try and find their own meals. We left before twilight, cold and tired but not really very hungry.

Getting pieces of the wall was much more difficult to do than one might imagine- the wall was re-built four times to make it indestructible. A screwdriver was no match for the four-foot wide sections that were six inches thick concrete laced with one inch steel reinforcement bars every four inches. By the time we got there, enterprising young men were renting hammers and chisels for the naïve to chip away at the wall. The most sought after pieces were those with letters over paint. The western side of the wall was thick with layers of graffiti. There were elaborate murals, what looked like tagging and lots of political commentary. Some murals might last only days before another artist made their contribution over it. I liked art this way--public, loud and temporary.

During the Cold War, Soviet and American tanks growled at each other at Checkpoint Charlie in a standoff. Checkpoint Charlie was the northern edge of the American sector (Berlin was divided up between the Allies and the Soviets) and a famous crossing point between East and West Berlin. The dramatic sign, “You are now leaving the American Sector” is still on display. Although it’s easy to imagine the archetypal Hollywood version of stoic guards standing at attention, the real story is in the funky museum.

The Haus am Checkpoint Charlie houses tangible evidence of the desperation and horrors of the Wall. Some of the actual converted cars are there along with homemade aircraft, photos and stories of escape tunnels by which people tried and sometimes succeeded in escaping from East Berlin. Films document some of the 120 people killed by attempting to escape under, over, through or around the Wall. The most recent tragedy was in May 1989, just six months before the border opened.

There is also an art exhibit with some haunting pieces that attempt to speak for those now silenced. It was here, in the funky add-on rooms of the building that I finally got it. I felt nauseous looking at grainy black-and-white photos of the dead. My knees shook as I read the description of a family stuffing themselves into the secret compartment of a tiny car in hopes of breathing freedom on the other side of their terrifying journey.

They did not make it. As I stood in front of a sculpture of death masks shrouded in torn gauze, I wept. I cried for the hearts that longed for what I so righteously had. I sobbed for the human spirit that is willing to die for it’s own preservation. I felt like such a coward with my fancy camera and brand new backpack. I was ashamed. And yet. Even when I recognized that my shame kept me aloof from this place, I also understood that under my fear there was indeed a connection. It was through art. In my own pitiful moments of teenage angst or adult heartbreak, I also turned to art to heal my wounds. I too formed clay into truth. I too blended colors with words so that I could be seen. Shaking in front of the art at Checkpoint Charlie, I understood that art breaks us open so that spent blood can flow out and rich blood can heal us. I bought postcards of the art and when I went home, I glued pieces of the Wall onto the frames postcards of Berlin art. I would not forget the souls I had seen through art.

Anna Stewart has published over 200 travel and parenting articles, essays, and reviews. She weaves words and family from Boulder, CO.

Other articles by Anna Stewart:

• Discovering Bhutan

• Borobudur, Java, Indonesia