Nikolay Miscevic
Time Quarrels
From imploding sky
to the upturned stone
from bare earth
to the bleached bone
I sought the traces of eternity…
but the ubiquity
of sin
time’s passion and
destiny’s grin
turned tear to pebble
blood to seeping gold
prodigal son
to a timeless rebel
and I drift
from ancestral betrayal
to the alchemist’s mold
like chaff in the wind
and pestle’s pulverized ash
I – the ultimate seed
etched in the mirror of sun
abreast the sodden soil
I – the zygote of eons
swallowed by the dust of yore
have surfaced here
amidst your ripening flesh
by the heaving sea
and now
as conspiracy
against primordial plot
we traverse the heathen land
from Mongolian plain
to antediluvian rain
from Persian dust
to gomorrah’s lust
from neolithic grain
to the paramount pain
from the fertile valley
of the nile
to the petrified sands
and the barren soil
amidst memory of greed
and testimonies of dire calamities
and spiritual need
we – aghast
in nocturnal gloom
against all odds
and the verdict of doom
run – like tempests
whispers of a sage
last tremors of the ageless wind
from the licking fires
and volcanic spasm
deep down
into abyss
of corporeal chasm!
a vestige – a hisssssss…
of love’s obstinate embrace
the lovers’ timeless kisssssss…
The Field
AI look at the field
sodden with sorrow…
its centennial grief
millennial disbelief
I stare – agape
at silhouettes that trod
the sacred land
lost in presence
blind to bygone tears
unable to mend
the flesh
torn by loathing
maimed by words
scavenged by claw and beak
scarred by sabers and swords
of the predatory flock
manna of yore
for the rabid beast
as memories pierce
the sun drenched sky
where you and I
still walk the epochal slumber
vanity’s prey
martyrs of treason
oblivious of time
and quantums beyond reason
we – lie here
caressed by awn and breeze
embraced by weed and wheat
staring
as blackbirds etch history
upon the brass and bronze of zenith
as we fade
timeless slivers of time
at midnight
into fathomless ingots
of celestial silver
Sara
Wherefrom cometh
The grapevine
The clusters and pearls
This divine fruit
The rubicund tear of ruby and
Sundrenched topaz
Vintage harvest
Squeezed out of cosmos
Whence the whisper of universe
The song of life
Wherefrom the olive branch
The succulent fig of yore?
I stare I see – agape
across this ethereal shore
Sun soaked horizons
and lingering rays of
Primeval dawn…
and hear the galactic canticle
resound and rejoice
as this remotest star of stars
finds its nest
right here
on this sacred parchment of Earth
Within the pulsating heart
of my newborn!
Korab
Beneath the peaks of Korab and Shar, descendants
of glacial antiquity wade out of craggy bedrock…the
lapidary hibernal den, toward the embracing valley
below, into the fertile furrow of budding grain and thirsty
palms of children of the scattered hamlets lost in time…
The millennial streams that quenched many a thirst borne
of drudgery and yore, still resound with the same chords
savoured by ancestral spirits of falcon and cloud…
The eternal snowcaps still jealously hide the lavish crests
never seen by man or time and conspire against the urban
agony he had left behind.
What is it?!…what mystic call of bygone centuries have
come to whisper in his ear the solitary call of the native
winds? This he may never know…but he had to follow his
one and only instinct…
The swaying hush of a distant cradle, among the hills
and crows, amidst the scents of scorched hay and
swelling walnuts in the august shade…deep in the mist of
motherly caress and fading memory.
Sky only knows…how he stumbled into the dark lair
of neon, seedy dens, kitsch and slime…how he had
sunk into that lapse of existence…through the crack of
distant hearth, into the limbo of a time warp…infested by
screeching noises and swarms of locust crowds.
Mother Earth only knows how he crawled back to this
mountain spring of springs…how he came about this
desolate plateau, to lie among the moss and weed –
gulping, gluttonous, the chilled drops of cavernous water
– as if they were the very nectar of forgotten gods, the
very milk of Venus.
Antonije Baturan
Flood
1.
planted
ankle deep
in a warm plankton soup
a proverbial silt
of gist-dumplings
mindful perennial tickles
swaddling
soaking
chatting up
your curled toes
plunging into
soft-skinned ground beneath
a cotton tissue of ambiguity
searching for
an emotional archipelago
in that mire
to rest
to hold
2.
short sighs
pre-verbs
swarms of nameless yearnings
crawling
licking
nuzzling
weaving a filament
of endearment
a tender shirt
filigree of
dreamlife intricacies
wrapping
ankles
shins
thighs
your pert body
to envelop
to carry
3.
or equally
semantic tentacles
of a nascent hunger
stretching
reaching
climbing
to pull
closer
into the potent sludge
the creative humus
thawing
misting
sprinkling
shower of liquified desire
to wash with
words
to swallow you
to be
Vasa Mihailovich
Land of the blackbirds
They named me so long, long ago. at the time of the tsars I was
close to the heart of the land. and then ruin – we lost everything in
the Kosovo battle. We
Suffered in slavery for several centuries. all that time the dream
was of the return and revenge. finally, the return took place a
century ago.
Now I am being claimed by those who grew in numbers while I was
enslaved. They did not even change my name, because they had
none of their own for it.
Do we have to wait again for returning to what I was before – the
land of the blackbirds?
Sharats
Marko and Sharats.
If there hadn’t been Marko, there would not have been Sharats.
If there hadn’t been Sharats, there hadn’t been Marko. The two
together entered the folk poetry.
That wondrous dappled horse flew over mountains, jumped cliffs,
saved his rider in distress, not expecting reward save for tapping on
the neck. When the time
came for the eternal departure in three hundred years, Marko
promised that Sharats would return alive when the people get their
freedom.
Because his wondrous strength is the symbol of people’s freedom.
as it was then, it still remains ‘till now.
Flute
Large orchestra playes in the park. The sounds of several instruments
thunder in the clear air of the early spring. Big horns drowned out
smaller instruments.
Among them a small flute, it can’t be heard, but it plays persistently.
The player skillfully moves his fingers on it and listens to his music.
He alone.
Even though the flute can’t be heard , it still continues to play with its
sisters.
Big things are measured not so much by their size but by their com-
munal spirit.
A dolphin and man
A dolphin loved a man very much. He played with him and cheered
him up with tricks. and helped him when needed.
One day, in his childish curiosity, the dolphin pulled on his head a
large plastic bag thrown carelessly into the sea. He began to choke
And his friendly grayish face turned bluish completely. Then, all
confused, he swam to the beach, to die there by his friend.
But his “friend” did not even look at him when he threw another
bunch of plastic bags by dolphin’s unmoving body.
Zoran Siriški
Betcharatz
The ink of the canal trembled in the night giving off the ripples into the
thick growth of reeds along its banks. Wild ducks kept the watch over
their fluffy brood, tenderly dotted around their mothers’ large warm
bodies. The reeds rustled from the slightest puff of June’s breeze reel-
ing the water into the depths of the northern Pannonia plains. Water
was still cold from late spring showers, so eagerly expected by every
paor in the village.
under the drifting surface, the gigantic brownish organism of the
canal was sleeping within its depths, slipping down to the slimy graph-
ite colored blanket of the muddy bottom. Countless shoals of fish, the
lonely predators silently abiding the rules of the night’s truce, resting
and waiting for the temptations of the day. only the balloons of trapped
methane, not knowing the life’s measures of time, kept escaping at their
own pace from the mud, hurtling towards the shell of their watery
prison dissolving into the freedom of the air with a big plop.
In several yards across the entire network of a thousand-or-so
village houses resting amid that sweetest doze just preceding the out-
break of day, few light ghost-like silhouettes plunged into hurried ac-
tivity as if daylight might spoil their plans. Some were lonely and yet
others were accompanied by one or more assistants, all firmly set on
making the fishing tackle ready for the best time for fishing – the day-
break. lamps in the sheds or stables were not off and no noise was
made to not wake up and disturb the fish, even though the canal for
some fishermen may have been more than a mile away. needless to say,
the habit of taking such precautions was dictated by fishermen’s super-
stitious nature and traditions rather than rational behavior.
Women grumbled and gave a silent curse or two for having to assist
their husbands in their errand. The outcome of this work depended
solely on the whims of muddy waters and god knows what else. Their
job was to knead the dough they could expertly make from maize flour
with a pinch of paprika powder and some salt. fish loved the fresh
dough balls, but it took hundreds of early rises and at least as many
grouses to fashion them in a way that will keep them stuck to hooks
for a long time. as if making the bait and fish fodder was not enough,
women also had to feed their fishermen and even prepare a snack for
their long fishing vigilance on the boats.
The crispy mirror of the water was wrapped in a light cloud of
methane, sulfur and organic decay. The first slaps of heavy oars made
out of ash or locust tree announced the beginning of a new fishing
day. reeds bowed and swished away to let the heavy tar-coated boats
out into the open waters. a startled crane baffled from its nap into a
frantic flap of wings against the mesh of reed, wriggled out from its
nests, which so suddenly transformed into a trap and vanished into
dark with a whistling whiz.
Secret passages in reed growth known to few were sought by the
trained eyes used to reading the shades and silhouettes among plant
rods growing above calm black waters. When the outlines of a hiding
place, known solely to its visitors, were finally spotted on the phos-
phorescent surface of the water glistening in the thicket, the boat was
brought to an immediate stop by grabbing an armful of reed stalks
and sticking it under the bottoms of men on the prow and rudder.
Everything was carried out in a silence that would be envied by even
the most skillful predator.
The first rays of dawn now tottered on the horizon as if a huge door
was open into a dimly lighted room. This was usually a signal for all
chilly currents to unite and give an ultimate flap to all warm-blooded
creatures. Some boats trembled in the rhythm of jaw rattle and a bottle
of home-made fruit brandy would be passed from hand to hand in
a body-warming and soul-elevating ritual. fishing rods were quickly
unpacked from the sacks. The first throws were attempted right after
some bait-feeding of the hopeful prey with a couple of handfuls of
roughly ground maize. The plumbs whistled through the night land-
ing with a splash and their traces quickly disappeared behind the wet
mirror of the water. roosters gave their first harsh long crows from the
depths of the backyards letting the fishermen know that the life would
soon start pulsating in its splendour and mystique of this living organ-
ism of the canal water.
first catch was soon shimmering in the silver beams of light pour-
ing across water from the East pulling the lines and prancing in the
last attempt to grope some air. Some dazed fisherman’s heart rejoiced
at the boon of god’s merciful gifts from the water garden. There was a
reason to be content with all the abundance of various fish one can lay
the hook on. Water sheltered and fed carps, red fins, basses…
The huge open pinky womb of the heavens gave birth to another
day. The blood of light was spilt across the shuddering expectant waters.
Soon the Sun would dive out from the primordial bed of darkness and
flood the world in torrents of warmth and mirth. The beginning of the
day promised a good catch. fishermen were now able to see the boats
dotting the banks as far as eyes could pierce through the grasping gifts
of early morning luminescence. fish were biting like mad with the first
rays of sunshine making its way towards the limbs of the Earth. The
long tongues of fog began to wave and twist on the illuminated glass
of the water making their way into the regular dwelling higher up in
the sky.
Suddenly a mellow plucking clatter was heard oozing from the
water; fishermen immediately pricked up their ears, twisting and turn-
ing their heads in attempt to locate the strange sounds, the enemies
of any serious fishing endeavour. Sounds began to form into an aud-
Aleksandar Petrovic
World Peace And Legacy Of B. Wongar
This paper examines the work of a Serbian-australian writer B. Wongar
and explores traditional Serbian and australian aboriginal cultures
that were both impacted by similar political structures. Wongar’s work
is compared to the opus of yukio Mishima, who in post-nuclear Japan
pledged to respect the ethical values despite the enforced moderniza-
tion. Wongar’s renounced novel raki received particular recognition
for accomplishing something that had never been attempted in litera-
ture before: creation of a symbolic bridge between Serbian and aus-
tralian aboriginal cultures.
Is it acceptable to consider someone who writes in English lan-
guage under aboriginal name B. Wongar a Serbian writer? Sreten
Božić alias B. Wongar, who was born in 1923 in the Serbian mountain-
ous village gornja Tresnjevica and nowadays is probably one of the
most important Serbian writers in the beginning of third millennium,
writes in English. This might appear confusing at first; however it does
showcase that particular trace in history where freedom of Serbian
literature had a chance to thrive due to ideologies promoted by both
conquerors and liberators. Truth be told, Sreten Božić was very de-
termined to make himself a literate person, to adopt all the cultural
significance embedded in written heritage and then to start to write
in Serbian. However the Second World War broke out and the soldiers
during his very first day at classroom took away his teachers and their
three children who never ever returned into his village again. a re-
placement teacher was found but even though the soldiers didn’t drive
off with her this time, they killed her in the classroom in front of the
pupils. after that experience Božić developed a strong distatsted to-
wards cultures built on literacy alone. In the next four years, there was
not a single teacher who would enter that school. Consequently Božić
was left alone with no other source of inspiration but his genuinely
bright mind and spoken legacy which was undoubtedly good enough
to bring forth a future writer.
Milutin Milanković, a world famous author of Canon of Insolation
dedicated to solving the secret of Ice ages, had a similar experience.
living in different circumstances at the end of the XIX century in
Slavonia, he did not attend elementary school due to his illness so he
had a chance to observe and explore the world around him in his own
way. When he started attending secondary school, réălka in Osijek,
he was surprised how effortless it was for him to learn new material
while all of his classmates seemed to struggled with it. He also grew
up on Serbian spoken legacy, especially touched by heroic character
Marko Kraljević, legendary knight who fought against Turkish imper-
ial oppression. The story of Marko left such a strong emotional imprint
on the young Milutin’s soul that the last paper he wrote before his death
was dedicated to this particular hero. Having no burden of scholastic
or of erudite illiteracy he developed a mathematical mind that created
heliocentric theory of the climate change that is confirmed more and
more as time goes by.
It is impossible to compare Milanković and Wongar simply be-
cause Milanković has university degree from Polytechnics, Vienna,
while Wongar was self-thought. Even though they are different when
it comes to their formal education and social status, they are still simi-
lar when it comes to their knowledge of Serbian legacy and the energy
they acquired through Serbian upbringing, epic poetry, traditional
wisdom and metaphors. Touched utterly by epic narrating of his father,
Milanković cherished Marko Kraljević all his life, Marko’s slavery and
then freedom from Turkish prison shackles served as an inspiration to
him to stand up alone against whole contemporary science, which was
going astray rejecting astronomic theory of the climate change. on
the other side, Wongar believes that he learned all important things
in life from the traditional poetry: ethics and esthetics, history and
skills. This knowledge acquired from the history on Serbian culture
was brought to australia and incorporated in all Wogner’s work de-
spite all the hardship he encountered over the years. Milanković and
Wongar both succeeded to form and achieve their own creative aim
simply because they consciously or subconsciously relied on Serbian
culture heritage that had been conveyed to them in the elementary
school and through spoken legacy of their fathers.
Milanković`s father Milan as “the member of the assembly in ep-
archy and archdiocese of Karlovci and political leader of Serbs plow-
men in Dalj, Belo Brdo, and Borovo”, praised and defended with
passion Serbian culture heritage in all of his public speeches and publi-
Eugene Nemez
Милорад Павич: балканские притчи
Milorad Pavic: Balkan Parables
This Serbian genius, who is unfortunately no longer among us, none-
theless continues to agitate the world of literature with dedication and
courage of a mine worker and insolence of the most defiant politician.
no, not agitating – mocking it, like a big city dandy would mock a
newly arrived county girl and her outdated look. Poor literature is left
with no choice but to retreat and tolerate everything with a pitiful smile
– what else is there to do…what else is there to say. I bet Borges would
have something to say, but unfortunately for the past twenty years he
has been giving literature lessons only to his students in the afterlife.
as it stands to this day, our beloved old man would easily leave any
modern writer in the dust. Coelho with his vain attempts at mysti-
cism looks like a child who just discovered aBC book. Pelevin should
have asked Pavic to teach him a few tricks about stylistics and mythol-
ogy (for money). and I’m sure even Sir Conan Doyle himself would be
honoured to have a diner with this restless Serb.
My first impression from Pavic’s work can be easily described in
just one word – shock. It seems as if he steals the words directly from
his reader, snatching and spinning them with the agility of a juggler,
twisting them into an uncontrollable hurricane just to pour that chaos
back onto the poor reader’s head. What he does to words cannot be
analyzed or explained, we are left with no choice but to sit with mouths
wide open watching how he turns literature into alchemy.
Pavic is not only intelligent, he is also wise and you don’t come across
this combination very often. His wisdom connects centuries together
allowing them to be combined in just few words:
“Her teeth were dented from highs and lows of Serbian and Italian
words”
What else is left to say when in just one sentence he managed to put a
brief description of the entire era of language development with under-
lining the highs of Serbian and lows of Italian and their combined influ-
ence not only on one individual but on the entire nation!
His intellectual capacity is mesmerizing, he manages to grasp and
hold on the very tip of his pencil the entire spectrum of details of any
era, whether it’s the death of french king in the fifteen century or nuan-
ces on correct diner service for a greek olive trader in Constantinople.
To say that Pavic knows world mythology is to make a heavy under-
statement. He doesn’t simply know it – he breathes it. He inhales it and
then exhales a different form creating something bizarre, surreal, even
terrifying and yet still harmonious. and I think I managed to solve this
riddle – the answer lies in pagan aspects of both ancient greece and
Slavic countries. let’s take a closer look into this statement.
Here is a good example – when Pavic says “woman” he doesn’t mean
a regular woman – her doesn’t write about regular women just like he
doesn’t write about regular people even though he describes their char-
acteristics and feelings. He implies The Woman, the initial woman like
Eve, Venus, lada – in other words The Mother. That’s why any erotic
description in his books is not erotic in the standard meaning of this
word; moreover it’s rather unfamiliar and even frightening. Why? Be-
cause Pavic’s notion of erotic scene is a magical ritual filled with heav-
enly meaning of the oldest process of birth and existence of Life itself.
This analogy reminded me of Tarkovsky’s movie where one of his
characters was supposed to sleep with the witch in order to eliminate
war (not to stop a particular war, but to get rid of all wars in general). I
feel that Pavic is implying something along the same lines in the erotic
scenes of his books.
But that ultimate Woman is not even the oldest representative of
human race. When humane race was basically a newborn, the world
was ruled by an ancient and far more powerful civilization of andro-
gynies – people of neutral gender (or maybe zero gender) that combined
both male and female essences. Pavic resurrects the fragments of this
ancient half-humans-half-gods civilization in our contemporary world
believing that these bearers of old wisdom and magical powers couldn’t
have just disappeared without any trace. you can find them practically
in every book, but ultimately it is “unique Item” that gave one of the
main roles to them. That is why it’s important to understand the notion
of androgynies; without basic knowledge you will never be able to
understand the book and for the same reason I do not recommend start-
ing your acquaintance with his works with this particular novel.
Before I decided to write my brief review of Pavic works, I kept
asking myself the same question over and over again: what is it that
he writes? I must admit I still cannot find the answer. His prose is the
cauldron of an alchemist where novels, essays, historical articles, mys-
tical novels, pagan tales and Christian parables are all brewing togeth-
er. They swirls and spin taking different shapes, going from one form
to another and back in such a smooth way that the reader doesn’t feel
or notice any flaws in these seamless transitions. I believe the word
parable or tale will be most descriptive for his work, although it’s hard
to imagine a parable size of a novel isn’t it? I will leave this discussion
to historians and literary critics to determine the exact name of the
genre, but personally I am satisfied with the name “Balkan Parables”
insisting that this niche of literature is solemnly occupied by nobody
else but this genius Serb.
another interesting moment to look at is how he writes. Why his
texts differ from those of thousands of his colleagues, so called broth-
ers of the quill? Primarily because he doesn’t look upon humanity the
way ordinary people do, he takes a different, unexpected approach.
for example, what would you say about the eyes of the person in front
of you? The color, the size, the shape…they might even give away the
mood or certain emotion trapped inside that person. If you decide to
Srboljub Zivanovic
Jasenovac System Of Croatian Concentration Camps For Extermination Of Serbs, Jews And Roma – 1941-1945
Mr Chairman, reverend fathers, ladies and gentlemen, sisters and
brethren, dear friends!
А large number of people, surviving victims, witnesses scientists,
politicians churchmen and people of good will spoke and wrote so
much about roman Catholic and Croatian genocide of Serbs, Jews and
roma during WW2 that it is difficult to say something new.
according to the International Commission for the truth on
Jasenovac system of Croatian concentration camps for extermination
of Serbs, Jews and roma more than 700 000 Serbs, 23 000 Jews and
80 000 roma have been exterminated. out of that number, more than
110 000 small children were killed. So, it is now very difficult to give a
better description of the atrocities of Croats and their roman-catholic
priests and nuns or to give a better explanation of the crimes against
humanity and genocide that they performed. The entire Serb, Jewish
and roma population in the Independent State of Croatia had suffered
genocide and extermination. roman-catholic priests and nuns and
particularly their franciscan order influenced and prepared Croats to
hate and exterminate all those who are not roman-catholic. I speak to
day as a forensic scientist who examined mass graves in Jasenovac and
Donja gradina in 1964. I am a medical practitioner but I am also an
ordinary man, one of those who were exposed to Croat, Moslem and
german atrocities in WW2. for more than half a century, since the
early days of my professional career , and particularly after excavation
of mass graves at Jasenovac and Donja gradina in 1964, I try to tell the
world the truth about the unbelievably slaughter of innocent victims
of Croatian and Moslem genocide.The loss of more then 700 000
Serbs, 23 000 Jews and 80 000 roma, cold blooded killing of 110 000
children, young people, old and infirm, ordinary people, just because
they belonged, by roman-catholic and Croatian opinion, to the
wrong religion, ethnic group or nation. Communist authorities who
collaborated with Croatian ustasha movement, tried to silence me
and to prevent the truth about roman-catholic and Croatian atrocities
from reaching the people o0f yugoslavia, in the name of “brotherhood
and unity” policy, and also in the name of peaceful coexistence of
victims and their torturers and murederers. The report of forensic
anthropologists who excavated mass graves at Jasenovac and Donja
gradina was submited to authorities in 1964, but it was kept in secrecy
for more than half a century. only a part of it has been published
in 1992. Even now, after the so-called democratic changes in Balkan
states after the destruction and dismemberment of yugoslavia nothing
has changed. There are many more mass graves of innocent people
killed during the criminal aggression of uSa and naTo forces, that
people worry much more about these graves than those of Jasenovac
and Donja gradina.
It seems to me that the population of former yugoslavia is in a
state of shock after surviving all the new atrocities that occured since
uSa and naTo, and Eu interference in the civil war in yugoslavia.
roman-catholic and Croatian criminals who planned, organised and
executed crimes against humanity and genocide against Serbs, Jews
and roma in the Jasenovac system of Croatian concentration camps
for torture and extermination, as well as their present day followers
try to minimise the number of executed victims, thinking in their
criminal minds that it is less of a crime to kill seventy thousand than
seven hundred thousand innocent people. The crime is the same if
you kill just one unborn child taken from the mother’s womb. The
International Commission for the truth on Jasenovac concluded in
2008 that the number of executed innocent victims killed in Jasenovac
was: 700 000 Serbs, 23 000 Jews and 80 000 roma In 2010 the
Commission reported that there were 110 000 children aged under 14
among the victims. The mass graves are still there. Skeletal remains
of the victims are just 120 cm under the surface of the soil. Those who
wish, can always count the bones. But, one can not count those victims
that have been thrown into the river Sava, or those burned in Pacili
crematorium, or those cooked for making soap etc.
It seems to me that there are many people to day, and there were
many such people in the past, who are afraid to learn the truth, because
the truth would expose their selfish and criminal intentions and
deeds, their lies, their mistakes, their hatred and their fears. Some of
them support, on the surface, investigations of the crimes, but deep
inside, they are against it. They do whatever they can to prevent new
investigations in Donja gradina and Jasenovac. Many obstacles are
placed to such investigations. Some parts of former yugoslavia, and
Serbia is one of them, do not wish to be seen that they are supporting new
investigations, because they try to keep good relations with the present
government of Croatia. at the same time Croatia is continuing with its
genocidal policy which is not different to the genocide occurred during
WW2. This Croatian policy led to the recent exodus of one million of
Serbs during the last civil war. They had to escape from Croatia to save
their life, leaving all their property and all possessions. The president
of Croatia at that time proclaimed openly that he is grateful to god
because his wife is neither Serb nor Jew. Present day Croatia does not
want to allow one million of Serbs to return to their ancestral homes in
Croatia. This is the result of deliberate effort to hide the truth about the
genocide performed by Croats in Jasenovac camps. Many books have
Irwin Block
The main Attraction Artist from Sarajevo finds hope, inspiration on St. Lawrence Blvd.
The worst seems to be over in former yugoslavia.
The café’s on lower st lawrent Bulevard are full of beautiful people,
squeezing lime into their Bloody Caesars.
and Marina gavanski-Zissis is painting again.
Her oils on canvas, essays on the nude human figure, are beacons
of love and hope for all humankind.
They have become the focal point of many a conversation at what
is arguably the hippest Second Cup in Montreal. and last night she
added some new paintings at her vernissage.
at the corner of St. laurent and guilbault St., the artist on the Main
explained her circumstances that led her to quit painting for 3 years.
from 1992 to 1996 when former yugoslavia fell apart, gavanski-
Zissis was unable to paint. She was shattered by the horrors of the
ethnic wars and subsequent bombing of Serbia. “The bombing was
the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“We all felt that we were personally being bombed, that everybody
hated us.
“We live here in Canada, but part of us is back in the country
where we come from,” said gavanski-Zissis, a Serb who lived in
Sarajevo before immigrating to Canada at the age of 8. In the 1980s
she returned as an adult to complete a five-year, fine-arts degree at
the university of Belgrade.
BaCK To arT
gavanski-Zissis, 44, said she went back to her art after realising
there was little she could do to help her compatriots in Europe.
She then rented a second floor loft on St. lawrence Blvd. and got
back to her first calling.
Being on the Main has been a big help. “This is the meeting of
the East and the West, of young and the old, poor and rich. This is
exactly what Montreal is and what Sarajevo was before the war. It’s
the heart of the city.
“The vibrations rise up and filter into my studio. Even though I
paint in silence, I can feel them coming.”
Inside the café, a Hard Day’s night by the Beatles was on the
speakers as gavanski-Zissis explained her mood in creating portraits
of men and women in love and repose.
“They are paintings of hope. I was looking for something beautiful
and hopeful and the most beautiful thing I could think of was love.
“There are many kinds of love and these paintings are focused on
real relationships, two people who really love each other, deeply.”
a three-part series called Paradise lost, started before the
bombing, is a forboding of horrors to be. Then come the paintings
that speak of rebirth.
a vision of hope is evoked by a work called “Ballet Cosmique”
“In spite of the fact that we may be pulled into a blacj hole, we have
the strength to dance our own dance”, she said.
Gavnski-Zissis’s Through Emotion exhibition is on at Second Cup, 3695
St. Laurent Blvd.
Marina Gavanski-Zissis
Exibitions and Art Related Activities
2012 group exhibition organized by the Embassy of Bosnia and
Hercegovina, Chateau laurier, ottawa
2012 group exhibition, International Women’s Day,
Casa D’Italia, Montreal
2012 group exhibition, art for Watercan, Embassy of Serbia, ottawa
2012 Exhibit at the Italian festival, Montreal
2011 unique project featuring the portrait of world number one
tennis player novak Djokovic: unveiling, studio vernissage,
and presentation at the rogers Cup, Montreal
2010 Exhibit at fIMa, Interntional art festival of Montreal
2009 Exhibit at fIMa, International art festival of Montreal
2008 Exhibit at fIMa, International art festival of Montreal
2007 Exhibit at george laoun, gallery, Montreal
2006 Exhibit at the Climate Control Centre during the
u.n.f.C.C.C., Montreal
2005 Exibition “Corpus Illuminatus”
during Montreal High lights festival
2004-05 Interview, Serbian Television program regarding art with a
live portrait demonstration, Vancouver
2004 group exhibition and art auction to benefit
“The Shield of athena” shelter for women, Montreal
2004 Participant of “Synergy art auction” in California
2004 “Colors of the olympics”, group exhibition at the
greek festival, Montreal
2004 “Colors of the olympics” group exhibition at the
greek Community Centre, Montreal
2003 Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro,
21 Blackburn avenue, ottawa
2003 Solo exhibition accompanied by Milan Miletic’s video
presentation of Kosovo and Metohija, Embassy of federal
republic of yugoslavia, ottawa
2003 one Woman Show at Second Cup cafe, Montreal
2003 open Studio, St. lawrence Boulevard, Montreal
2001 one Woman Show at Second Cup cafe, Montreal
1999 Interview with CBC newsworld
regarding war and art, Montreal
1998 Interview with global TV as artist of the month, Montreal
1998 Interview with CJnT television in the artist’s studio, Montreal
1998 one Woman Show at Cafe Expressions, Montreal
1997 festival orford – art Expo, orford, Quebec
1997 group Exhibition at galerie Harrison, Montreal
1997 one Woman Show at Montreal gallery
1996 group Exhibition ‘les femmeuses 96’,
Pratt & Whitney Canada Inc.
1995 group Exhibition at Holy Trinity Serbian orthodox Church,
Westmount, Montreal
1992-95 Worked in fields of journalism and poetry
1992 group Exhibition ‘les femmeuses 92’, (benefit for shelters for
women and children), Pratt & Whitney, Montreal
1991 one Woman Show to benefit the Quebec Cystic fibrosis
association, Marina gavanski-Zissis Studio, Montreal
1990 one Woman Show to benefit the giant Steps School
(Canadian Institute for neurological Development),
Marina gavanski-Zissis Studio, Montreal, Quebec
1990 one Woman Show accompanied by a piano and violin concert,
Marina gavanski-Zissis Studio, Montreal
1989 one Woman Show at Dawson College, Montreal
1988 group Exhibition to benefit the ladies Hellenic Benevolent
Society, ritz Carlton, Montreal
1988 Private one Woman Show at the greek Consulate, Montreal
1987 Participant at art Sales and rental gallery,
Museum of fine art, Montreal
1986 group Exhibition at robson Square Media Centre, Vancouver
1984 one Woman Show at the greek national Tourist organisation,
Montreal
1983 group Exhibition at the greek Community Centre, Montreal
1981 group Exhibition at robson Square Media Centre, Vancouver
1981 group Exhibition at atelier J. lucacs, Toronto
1981 group Exhibition at Saxe gallery, Toronto
1980 group Exhibition at Tivoli gallery, San francisco, California.
1980 group Exhibition at robson Square Media Centre, Vancouver
1979 group Exhibition at Move gallery, north Vancouver
1979 one Woman Show at MacEwen art Space, Vancouver
1979 Solo exhibition (one Woman Show),
faculty of fine arts, Belgrade