Traces

1-Lumix Jan11-Lumix Jan-001

1-Lumix Feb8

The Mummerehlen

There is an old nursery rhyme that tells of Muhme Rehlen. Because the word Muhme meant nothing to me, this creature became for me a spirit: the mumerehlen.

Early on, I learned to disguise myself in words, which were really clouds. The gift of perceiving similarities is, in fact, nothing but a weak remnant of the old compulsion to become similar and to behave mimetically. In me, this compulsion acted through words. Not those that made me similar to well-behaved children, but those that made me similar to dwelling places, furniture, clothes. I was distorted by similarity to all that surrounded me. Like a mollusk in its shell, I had my abode in the nineteenth century, which now lies hollow before me like an empty shell. I hold it to my ear. What do I hear? Not the noise of the field artillery or of dance music a la Offenbach, not even the stamping of horses on the cobblestones or fanfares announcing the changing of the guard. No, what I hear is the brief clatter of the anthracite as it falls from the coal scuttle into a cast-iron stove, the dull pop of the flame as it ignites in the gas mantle, and the clinking of the lampshade on its brass ring when a vehicle passes by on the street. And other sounds as well, like the jingling of the basket of keys, or the ringing of the two bells at the front and back steps. And, finally, there is a little nursery rhyme.

“Listen to my tale of the mummerehlen.” The line is distorted – yet it contains the whole distorted world of childhood. Muhme Rehlen, who used to have her place in the line, had already vanished when I heard it recited for the first time. The mummerehlen was even harder to rouse. For a long time, the diamond-shaped pattern that swam on my dish, in the steam of barley groats or tapioca, was for me its surrogate. I spooned my way slowly toward it. Whatever stories used to be told about it – or whatever someone may have only wished to tell me – I do not know. The mummerehlen itself confided nothing to me. It had, quite possibly, almost no voice. Its gaze spilled out from the irresolute flakes of the first snow. Had that gaze fallen on me a single time, I would have remained comforted my whole life long.

From A Berlin Childhood by Walter Benjamin

© images Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2013

Advertisements

15 Comments on “Traces

  1. Wow! These are amazing photographs – I don’t know how you did it and the lover of magic in me prefers it to remain a mystery. 🙂

  2. Your words and pictures are a so beautiful and ephemeral and completely unique. I can see you even more through this piece. You are a beautiful creature! 🙂

  3. The images are just stunning and their friction with Benjamin’s text create’s a spark, a third thing. Wonderful post.

    • Oh great! I like that there is a third thing. I wasn’t sure if it quite got there… but in any case I have much more to write about Benjamin he is such an inspiration to me. Thanks so much as always for your thoughtful comment, Richard.

  4. Spellbinding! I could get lost in those layers, dreams through glass, water and moving things…

  5. Pingback: Let me tell you about Walter | searchingtosee

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: