Mother Tbilisi

Essay by Elia Doimi

From the soporific of flowers embraced, 

A motely butterfly will seek caresses of breezes  

warm…

 Anna Kalandadze

¿Habría sido así acaso si él, el ser humano,

no hubiera sentido en sí, dentro de sí,

un ser el suyo, escondido?

Y aun si no se hubiese visto un tanto ya

desde afuera como un ser escondido.

Maria Zambrano .(139)

Spring: The Colors of Snow

The snow is melting in Mtsiminda park and in the morning Tina and Gega are looking towards east, under a Tyemali tree, their feet sit between yellow winter jasmines; they turn their necks to follow the leafs and their rays. Towards the west the snow is still thick, the peaks tremble under the shade of the sun, clusters of clouds seem those very endings, yet the beginnings drag and dance up to the sky. On one of the national gallery’s windows a little slogan quotes: ‘We all come from childhood’, the beginning of a book underlines: ‘What we do, we do in the name of humanity’, another one shows what is inside the walls of the gallery, a Qajar collection, speaking of a history of links, hollows, of journeys that always renovate bringing winds of style and change. Behind walls themes, whispers, with a glissando show the keys of pianos opening up windows and doors without turning or twisting knobs and handles. Giya Kancheli’s blue notes, thrills of chords dance on a balcony.

And flowers, flowers everywhere reminding that spring is at the door.

Tbilisi, a city of flowers and music, of snow that turns directly into spring. A feeble light embracing the mountains and the street, a dream it seems; frames of colors and breaths of perfumed needs. Then the political, the imminent, the question of how to go forward, to look on the past to build and continue, ever so, continue on a path that has led us to today. Again those very walls filled with music and words, come back with their colors showing wishes, dreams and contrasts - ideas and opinions clashing - what to think, how to think, how to act upon that very thinking, this seems to be the question: What is freedom? And another one coming, pushing itself forward in the crowd: Can we answer with certitude? A whisper amongst the walls: it’s difficult to be sure.

Yet I would like to write why it’s better not to answer but to continue living, absorbing the colors, the rhythms, the story and the history of Tbilisi, waiting for the snow to melt and all the trees to flower; for the summer to fill the flowers and for the grapes to shelter, to foster the walls and the world. Lost in between decisions and opinions Tbilisi finds itself in its reality, in the art of nature that brings every journey together with a flavor for renovating the past, of springing in the future, of ripening, becoming what it has always been; the centre of a rumbling, ever so enchanting world, made of snow and rays, of land, of peaks of seas and lakes. A mirror, as Morchildaze says, where the sea is stuck in the mountains, where salt and snow meet the chasms of the sun, where mountain tops hide and defend the rocks, where heroes get lost and find themself in a frame of quavering mirrors, asking ourselves, like Morchiladze, what are we without mirrors; asking ourselves like The Man in the Panther skin, should we listen to all those voices or take that decision upon ourselves; are we not but everything, and is everything not but essential to the beauty of these walls, of these mirrors, of this country, of this world?

Yet parts seem to divide from that everything; something seems to want to stand by next to what is always there, telling us why she is different, that something is there, unique, in the way the wind meets the walls and creates desires, leaves, ways in which we color and change.

Tbilisi, the mother of Georgian cities, a mother who brings everyone together. Tbilisi, now the home of people who are running away from their mothers that can’t protect them anymore. Tbilisi, a harbor with no sea, with mountains, corners and rivers. Here, as mirrors and as reflections of Tbilisi’s motherhood: Roads, Walls and Homes; Books, Music and Art; Mountains, Cathedrals and Views seem to walk with the city, seem to be places for people to tell their stories, to shelter, color their lives.

Roads, Homes and Walls

The first few days the snow and the sun travelled with each other, mirroring and reflecting their paths and their steps. One could hear the snow slowly evaporating between the pipes and the floor. This moment came together with Mother’s day and international Women’s day. This melting  of moments brought the yellow of primulas, tulips and mimosas to become bouquets and banquets. Flowers sold at every corner and in shops; shops that sell books, wine and coffee; that cut hair and bake bread like gondolas in clay ovens. Colors everywhere, lingering - goods and people in basements and roofs - there, music giving frames, escaping from corners, rushing towards the center.

Walking on the street that takes you from the old city to Vake you can here pianos coming from walls; entering the homes, the shops, the schools you can see pianos everywhere. I have never seen so many pianos. In Italy at the moment they are very rare objects, when you find them they are often out of tune or impossible to move; human tuners are disappearing as much as dinosaurs have extinguished. From outside you can hear themes coming out, from inside you can see fingers pressing in. Speaking to a music teacher at Mikeladze music school I ask her why there are so many pianos and she tells me that once nearly every family in old Tbilisi had a piano and that all the youth learnt it both at school and at home. Mariam, tells me the same thing, explaining how those fingers on the keys can be made of sweet and sour memories. The music knocks from the inside, reaches towards the outside. There the walls become the home of flags, words and vines. Twisting towards the sky, the age of the land grows on the walls and hangs dried clusters that remind you how the seasons will change the city. Coloring the bricks and the limestone, scraped, vivid colors on walls tell the standing point of the city, where some of its people want to be, what they want to think, flags of Ukraine, of Georgia, of Iran stand next to American and European flags, words on Russia are underlined and scribbled. There is a debate underneath the vine, under the reality perspectives dwell and fight.

Goli, an Iranian friend tells me that our perspectives are not necessarily different but our realities are, we live different lives, not perspectives. Yet different perspectives live in the same reality. But one needs to be cautious not to confuse the two. Goli studied philosophy and in her voice there is a bell of desire in what she says. She is right, one can’t confuse the two. The walls tell the story of different perspectives, under a vine of truth.

Walls again come back in shades of red marble and granite, they stand in front of carved oak and high ceilings. Windows, modern and old on Shota Rustaveli give a glimpse onto staircases and cables. Underground tunnels connecting the two sides, one for the river, the other for the mountain. A glissando of marble and granite, of sand bricks and flags, of lights, shops, restaurants, markets and marketing. Goods from the world and from Georgia side by side. Between the opera and freedom square a manifestation takes place every evening, in front of the granite and the marble, flags spring high and question the answers. As day after day I pass in front the people have disappeared along with the flags, just a couple resist wrapped in curtains, (some nights they all come back, they always do) sheets and covers next to the wall, made of granite and marble, made of different shades of red.  The Deserter Bazaar and Sakhashvili ask their questions to those in front of the granite. They ask them to think about them, to try to give an answer to those walls. To how to color those walls, how to open the windows towards the street and what to keep inside, how to foster it, how to sell it, to share it. Where objects and food become the citizens. Tbilisi as every city in the world lives at least two lives. One made of land and buildings, of pipes, structures, water and sinks, one made of hands, of colors, of images; one its reality, one its reproduction. The reality looking in the mirror of itself behind a window, asking who passes by to look at how the city became an image, how the landscape magically became a scale.

There the walls and the shapes become complex bases for new buildings. Tbilisi is now changing its skin, quickly moving towards investments and ideas of future houses. Ali, a Turkish engineer, explained how he is participating in a bidding process for a big project on the river bank. The project is to create a multifunctional structure of buildings composed of supermarkets, offices and homes all hosted by skyscrapers. He is competing for the air-conditioning system which would control all the buildings. Tbilisi is quickly changing, speeding towards its future. The question is now in how to preserve the past, its small houses made of bricks, rocks and wood. Many people are worried that the speed with which the future is capturing the land, with buildings castling upon each other will leave the past in ruins. The houses need maintenance, the materials need someone to look after them, need people to help them recover from the humidity of the seasons. Walking in the streets you can see ladies pulling the weeds from the pavement. You can still see old people walking with their granddaughters and grandsons up the steep roads, buying their grocery, resting on the side. You can see old women and men at the corner of the street, traveling from their homes to sell flowers they collected in the forest. The old city is an harbor for old people to live slow lives. For houses to be looked after and become homes. Yet, the old city is one small part of the city. A city that follows the rhythm of building blocks and tools that you can hear resonating, hollowing the city.

Books, Music and Art

From the outside one can see, hear, feel that something special is happening inside. Where on the street rows of saplings and flowers follow each other, inside the walls those same flowers, those saplings become plants and trees, sheltered by walls, watered by hands, cans, bottles and ideas. From the inside you can see the quality of what is fostered by the walls.

Tbilisi is a trilingual city, every bookshop has sections in Georgian, Russian and English, every time you enter you can see alphabets crossing, face to face translations and histories sheltered by pages. In the many bookshops I found several translations of Georgian literature; amongst the choice I read Anna Kalandadze’s poems, Aka Morchiladze’s book Of Swords and Old Hearts, Flight from the USSR by Dato Turashvili and Outside time and space by Vazha Pahela. In these books you can find many hearts of many Georgians. You can find perspectives and realities, ways to look at the city, the landscape and the country; ways to look at the world, to answer it and question its questions. One can find the city between its walls, where thousands of words tell you to look carefully in order to feel what they felt and still do. Hearing this suggestion, one becomes eager to look, feel the city and its past become the present and the leafing of its future.

As in Kancheli’s score, as in Vika’s words music is there just to counterpoint a normal day in Tbilisi. On the road that connects the conservatory to the new, temporary location of the jazz club one can here pianos escaping the shutters; Rezo Michiladze’s sax improvising the soul, bringing together his love for his son with the passion for music, for feeling the music instead of reading, of joining, of not separating music and notes. The evening of the 10th of March I’ve had the chance to attend a concert in the conservatory and a concert in 1984 Jazz club. An evening that showed the delicacy of music in all its forms, where Georgia met the world, where Georgians travelled it, where foreigners came dancing in. But music is not only within walls, music is often on the street. On Shota Rustaveli a young man plays the electric guitar standing on top of a stonewall next to Rustaveli metro station. In the tunnel under the Opera a couple play nearly every day, she plays the guitar sitting on a chair by the wall, he sings, slightly tilting from shoulder to shoulder, back to the wall. Everywhere you can find someone singing, someone sharing their rhythm with the city.

Art in all its forms is in Tbilisi. Pirosmani and the Qajar collection stand up high on the walls. The art academy hides behind Shota Rustaveli’s main road. In Alexander Griboedov street, a narrow road connects the conservatory and the art academy. There you can see students carrying cases of all sorts of shapes, carriers of invisible notes and shapes, tools that color, papers that wait. When you open the art academy’s doors two staircases are divided by statues that pinpoint the depth. As you walk up the first staircase, the busts seem to walk towards you, seem to slightly move to show themselves behind their shoulders. As you go past the second staircase you are met by a room of mirrors, where one looses himself by just standing still. The first time I entered this building I was mesmerized by all its glissando of perspectives, colors, mirrors and people. The security guards, the librarians, their chairs and the walls that hosted them seemed to create a labyrinth where one couldn’t but remain surprised. As day after day I came back the librarians started showing me different books, suggesting me different Georgian artists, there I found traditional views of old worlds and contemporary perspectives and one day I found friends.

I was walking by one Friday morning and as I left my bag in the library I headed to get a coffee and I saw Dato playing with a ball with safety boots on. I was tempted to stop and play with him. In the end I went to get the coffee and on my way back I stopped to say hello. When I was sitting with my new friends they asked me what I was doing there and I told them that I was simply looking for Georgian art in books. After that sentence Dato told me that you can’t find art in books, that art is somewhere else. Then Aleksander asked what I was looking at, what I was looking for. I told him, but apart from the more famous ones he didn’t know who the painters were. He told me that one day I should go to his workshop, that he has a library of books on Georgian Art. On one side Dato was right, I had to look outside of books as well and I started going to the Art Academy every day, looking for what art meant to the students. There I found a mix of personalities that have welcomed me and shared with me their questions. In their words one can feel Tbilisi’s ambition; the ambition of meeting the world with a specific identity, with a tradition; of welcoming the world within its walls with the hope to understand how it all works, to feel the beauty of distant worlds.

The first day I was there Luka, a former philosophy student who has now returned to Kaheti to work the land told me the story of the olive groves in Georgia and the story of wine and the Persian empire. He was really passionate about the story and told me how he wants to preserve the land, he wants to make it his own form of art. In his speech there were strong words and motifs, he spoke of the Persians, of wars, of love and hate, of pride, of tradition. After a couple of days I went back to the Art Academy with Viyan, a Kurdish Iranian friend and at first I was a bit worried because of what was said that Friday, I was worried that it wouldn’t go well. But that was only the fruit of my paranoia. They loved Viyan and they ask me of her every time I go.

Dato was right you can’t find art in books, there you can find the story of art, its images (with all its etymological complexity), but to find Georgian art, one needs to meet its artists, people who live their lives with an artistic sense, who welcome people in an artistic way, who create those images because they relate to life in an extraordinarily delicate way. Art is a way of living life, of coloring what can be put within a frame. Dato here gives an explanation to who wants to make art; if you want to make something your ambition should be the ambition of a child: one should play, do it for one’s self, not to be someone or to achieve something, but to do it, to simply do it with the ambition of feeling what one is doing, of putting what you feel in what you are doing.

Mountains, Cathedrals and Views.

When one arrives, one can see how cathedrals and mountains share space, how their view is a shelter and a memory, where hands cross the chest and the sun bounces and reflects. 

Tiflis, the warm one in arabic, is in a valley where the river flows, where currents meet and separate the land. From the top waterfalls give their rhythm and as people rise towards the top, they look back and recognize a cathedral, move their hands upon their chests. Tbilisi is a city of mountains and cathedrals, of monasteries steeped up high. In the middle, the people live a life filled with cars and walls, with workers, with pianos, with structures and images that move. The people are always speaking to them, looking at them, walking past and stopping by. On the mountain sides gyms and paths become places where everybody spend their time; sweating and breathing, climbing up high to look at the city. Cathedrals are often there in between the river and the mountain peak, pinpointing the path that brings the people above the sea level. From far away the mountains and the cathedrals look like questions of beauty, asking the people to host their hopes of peace and art, sheltering dreams and desires. They become places to spend free time, to find a breath that escapes the rumble of the city, a place to rest. When one gets closer, when one climbs the sides, sees the yellow jasmines, the Tyemali trees, the pines and all their saplings; when one opens the doors of the cathedrals and feels the smell of incense, the humming music of the accordion, of the priests, of the quires one can find people who hope, who look for shelter and feelings; for a view that may foster their dreams.

The Question of the Answer

Dato, as we try to mold the clay, to create a shape, tells me that we don’t ask the question but we try to give an answer to a question which is already there, that our transforming in order to create is a game that needs to follow shapes. Circles and Ovals are already there, we just need to try to give our answer, our own egg to the question of the egg and hen or the egg and the head. This is the possibility of art to walk along the lines and create as much as it transforms. Art becomes an answer to a question. But are all questions to answer?

In Steel, Germs and Guns, a book that changed, tilted the course of my life, Jared Diamond tries to answer the most difficult question that history has posed, a question that has ruined thought, thinking and countries; the psyche, the land, the walls, the frequencies, the rays. An answer that has shattered atoms and created wrestling roots that dwell upon plastic and flush in the rustling bronzing of pipes, that travel escalating, glissando, bombing the world.

Yet, Diamond tried to answer the question in a delicate, scientific way; tried to retrace those very steps that brought one side of the world to move around with a striking force and another side of the world to wait and move in different patterns. In trying to answer this question he had to deal with violence and illnesses, with germs, winds, crops, seeds and worms. He had to crawl like a baby and like a baby stand on his feet and stumble, fall and cry; once again smile, turn his head as long as he repeated the same words, whilst trying to avoid the mistakes of answering an unanswerable question: Why did someone move and why did someone else wait? His answer tried to consider the needs and the desire of beings which brought mistakes to become historical tragedies, flourishing in ideas and ideals that try to resist.

The Last 100 years have been the most violently global years of man kind, bombings and excavations have dug wounds in the land and in the sky in the name of answering that same very question; trying to declare who is right in moving, in acting upon the waiting. The global market has become a glissando of dreams and decks, of controlling panels, of inventions that answer the question: Who is the best? Telling Diamond nobody has ever waited, we have all always moved, always answered those very questions.

In the middle, between the sky and the land crosses, stars, moons, flags, circles and ovals strike our views and tell us where we are, what to think about, how to reflect upon it, how to mirror those questions into tentatives, into whispering answers.

The past year has been the peak of a terrifying decade of conflicts; civilians have been killed, schools destroyed, families struck, cemeteries filled. Tbilisi, in this period of struggles has become an answer, an artistic mother welcoming mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, showing how her history of encounters, of edges between the world will become homes for art, for mothers to be fostered by a mother who always gives flowers, even when the snow is whispering from the pipes.

The children of the world are fleeing their mothers to seek shelter, to look for a home. A young man from Russia tells me how he fled the country crossing the border with a bicycle, how at the border thousands of cars waited for days to escape to Georgia. A young woman from Iran tells me how she knows nothing about her family, how they say not to worry but how could she not, she can hear the sound of drones and bombs from the sky in her bed. A young man from Ukraine tells me how after 5 days he left his house in a village to go back to Kiev, his house was destroyed along with his things, but how he is grateful because he is not dead. The young man from Russia dreams of becoming a professional skateboarder, the young lady from Iran to become a researcher, the young man from Ukraine dreams to participate in a rally that will take him from Czechoslovakia to Mongolia. 

A little sentence on the wall of the house I live in quotes: ‘a Home has ceased to become a home and nobody seems to care.’ Every time I read it my heart swells, my eyes close. Yet one should also underline when a home opens its doors, when a mother accepts the children of another mother, of another land.

There, where mothers become homes, bricks and flags, moons and crosses on the chest, a tkemali tree will be a mirror and a wink in the sky remembering that everything flees and stays in a mother’s womb, that spring is there, lying, twisting, chirping under the snow; becoming a yellow jasmine, a peach made of wings on the edge of the world.

About the author: Elia Doimi is a graduate of Ca'Foscari University of Venice whose work and interests span education, literature and culture. having lived and worked in places including Thailand, London and Tbilisi, he brings a cross-cultural perspective to his work, combining a passion for learning, storytelling, and global exchange.

"I am Elia, I am 27. I was born in Genoa. And I continued travelling, following a family, who moved suddenly. In those days I learnt a rhythm that whispered words and stories from all over the world.I learnt to speak in the countryside around Rome, I heard rumbling stories in London's courts and between the sea and the woods I started remembering the past in a little fraction of a village named Posato. Once again I left to go and hear, to see where those courts, those thousand stories would take me. Studying Comparative Literature and Film studies and then Anthropology I tried  to give images to the lamp globe that gave light to my childhood mornings and nights, to those fingers and eyes that spotted little stretches of land in between the oceans and seas. Looking for the hidden and clear, that knowledge that connects people to languages and emotions I travelled, always falling in love with how kids dream those very dreams that will lead them through their days".