A story that started with a name and a LOST sibling

The temptation of knowledge.

To me, there is a profound temptation to seek out these hidden stories. I feel the urge to understand the full scope of my familial identity.

Knowledge, after all, is power, they say. Maybe the act of uncovering family secrets is an assertion of autonomy, a reclamation of my own narrative. It feels this way, as I dive into - not only my own family history, but also into narratives of people I do not know.

Can it be that knowledge isn’t the power here, but bridge building is? To bridge the gaps between generations, can fostering a deeper understanding of the forces that have shaped us and still do.

Object of Focus: The Story of Johan.

I had a conversation with Maria who shared the story of her father, Johan. Maria described her father Johan as a man of quiet strength and unspoken sorrow. He was born one year after his elder brother, Hendrik, had died of pneumonia at the age of four. Johan’s parents, devastated by the loss, named him after Hendrik’s middle name.

From a young age, Johan was constantly reminded of Hendrik. Hendrik’s photo was placed at the entry of the house and Johan often wore hand-me-downs that had once belonged to his late brother.

Maria recalled that her father spoke little about his childhood. “He always felt he had big shoes to fill,” Maria said. “My grandparents never intended to, but they often compared him to Hendrik, wondering aloud how similar or different the two brothers might have been.”

In his own family, Johan was a very dedicated father, perhaps overcompensating to ensure that his children never felt overshadowed or compared to one another.

The loss of a child leaves a profound and unfillable void, a sentiment deeply expressed in Shakespeare's text from "King John." In my artistic exploration of child mortality, I have been deeply moved by the concept of symbolic presence, which Shakespeare so vividly describes.

"Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form"

This line resonates deeply with me. When I was pregnant with my child, a mother who had lost her baby during childbirth gave me the clothes she had lovingly bought for her child. Her baby never got to wear them. My child lived; hers did not.

These tiny clothes, filled with the essence of the child who was meant to wear them, served as a vivid reminder of the life that was never lived. Yet, as my child wore them, they also symbolized the resilience of life and the profound connections that bind us through shared experiences of joy and sorrow.

Object of Focus: Objects as relics

Klaasje passed away when she was only eight years old. Many of her belongings were given away, but Klaas kept the plastic donkey as a relic, a treasured keepsake.

For Klaas, holding onto the donkey is an act of remembrance and connection. When he holds the toy, it conjures images, sounds, and even smells of Klaasje. In those brief moments, it feels as though she is alive in his thoughts once more.

The plastic donkey, never merely a toy, becomes a powerful symbol of Klaasje's presence, encapsulating the memories and emotions that Klaas cherishes.

I am fascinated by this haunting yet beautiful symbolism: the relentless presence of grief and the way it transforms everyday objects into sacred relics of the past. The objects left behind by a lost child are not just remnants of their physical existence; they are vessels of memory and love, filled with the essence of the child. These items stand as testaments to the lives that once animated them.

Note: Klaas was born 14 months after Klaasje passed. He never knew her when she was alive.

I just reached out to Tresoar, an archive that holds numerous personal documents like letters and diaries. I inquired about the possibilities of finding personal accounts relevant to my project within their collections.

When I elaborated on the core of my research—finding accounts on the impact of having a deceased predecessor—the lady I spoke to said, “Oh, my mother was named after a sister who died two weeks prior.” I asked if her mother was still alive, but no, she had passed away years ago. “And I never really thought about it until you mentioned it…” This strengthens my resolve in my quest. Many families have such stories. The question of how things truly were is often asked too late.

But the more I contemplate delving into diary archives to seek testimonials, the more I find myself grappling with an ethical dilemma. Diaries are intimate documents, often penned with an expectation of privacy and personal reflection. Using these personal accounts for research requires careful consideration of the ethical implications.

Object of focus: What is it like, living in the shadow of a ghost, an invisible sibling whose presence is felt in the echoes of parental grief and unspoken hopes?

Object of focus: the white baptism dress.
Delicate and embroidered it has been passed down through generations. Today, it rests in my studio, a poignant symbol of continuity and remembrance. But not really.

This tiny doll dress to me works as a catalyst to help tune into emotions that could be felt as the chain was broken due to child loss. The dress embodies not just family traditions, but the fragility and the poignant interruptions in that continuity caused by the loss of a child. As I engage with this artifact, it draws out a profound sense of empathy and sorrow.

The stories of loss are not just historical records but emotional legacies that continue to affect descendants. This journey through family histories makes me aware of the hidden scars and silent griefs that shape the present.

These stories symbolize the universality of grief, resilience, and the search for identity. They represent not only the specific experiences of those directly involved but also a broader reflection on what it means to remember and honor those who have passed.

Throughout history, the loss of a child has been one of the most profound and heart-wrenching experiences. It alters family dynamics, leaves a lasting impact on parents, and can shape the lives of siblings and extended family members.

Creating this image of a ‘translucent baby’ has stirred a deep well of emotions within me. The delicate, almost ghostly form serves as a symbol of fragility and loss. It represents not only the absence of the child but also the enduring presence of their memory in the lives of those left behind.

Imagine not losing one child, but six. Using the same name for your daughter tree times and giving your son the same name you used two times earlier. I can’t. And yet, I read about it while digging into my own family history. This wasn’t unusual at the time. It must have happend to more families.

Diving into these stories is both a privilege and a burden. It has deepened my understanding of human resilience and the ways we cope with loss and remembrance. But, it also is an emotional rollercoaster.

This certificate represents a union from the early 1800s, a time when records were meticulously kept, yet often incomplete. The absence of parental names might indicate a myriad of stories—estrangement, orphanhood, or a desire to start anew without the weight of family history.

Sketch of a mother nurturing an absent child. It represents not only the absence of the child but also the enduring presence of their memory in the lives of those left behind.

Reflecting on the historical context of child mortality (40% died before their first birthday) in nineteenth-century Brabant adds a layer of sorrow and injustice to these feelings. The loss of so many children, exacerbated by misguided and oppressive societal norms, is heart-wrenching. The ban on breastfeeding imposed by the local clergy, driven by the notion of modesty, had devastating consequences. The replacement of natural nourishment with cow’s milk diluted with water, which was often contaminated speaks to a tragic ignorance and the severe repercussions of such policies.

Judy Mandel, author of the memoir “Replacement Child,” provides insights and experiences on living in the shadow of a deceased sibling. Her narrative is both interesting and devastating, capturing the complex emotions of being a replacement child. She mentions feeling both special and inadequate—a duality that is challenging, but in my opinion, crucial to represent visually.

Mandel’s story reveals the emotional burden and conflicting feelings inherent in this identity. She describes how the memory of her deceased sibling influenced her own sense of self, often leading her to feel as if she could never measure up to the idealized image of her predecessor. This dichotomy of being cherished as a second chance yet struggling with a pervasive sense of inadequacy is a central theme in her memoir.

Focus: Trow back. I cleaned out a part of my studio. This piece captured my attention. Looking at it now I can see this image as a depiction of the struggle between memory and identity. The obscured face could be a representation of the lost child's presence and the new child's challenge in defining their own identity.

Does naming a new child after a deceased sibling symbolize both continuity and remembrance? Does it reflect the family's unending love for the lost child and the hope that the new child will carry forward the legacy? If so can it be seen as a bridge between past and present, life and memory?