From vox.com
Why do we preserve the scary, endless pandemic days?
The five young filmmakers of HBO’s Covid Diaries NYC
refuse to put a happy face on the pandemic, and honestly, that’s a
relief. When the coronavirus slid from headlines into their very real
lives last spring, they picked up cameras and started recording what was
happening around them. With the aid of a Manhattan nonprofit, the Downtown Community Television Centre,
the five directors (ages 17 to 21) capture the well-grounded fears of
essential workers and their families, the mental health tolls of
isolation and dread, and the impossibility of escaping a virus that has
reached pandemic proportions.
That very act — recording what was happening, as it was
happening, from their points of view and narrated in their voices —
makes them part of a long history of catastrophe diarists. For
centuries, shattering events of epic proportions have provided a reason
for people to pick up a pen, or a camera, and start recording. It’s the
first draft of history. And it’s more raw, less prone to moralizing,
more resistant to neat little narratives of triumph. What you get in a
diary is not just events, but the rush of emotion that accompanies them.
In Covid Diaries NYC, the results are
harrowing. Each roughly 8-minute short film, compiled into one
collage-style feature, was shot from roughly April 2020 through the
early summer, when unrest following the police killing of George Floyd
added a new layer to the anxiety for some and provided others with an
outlet for pent-up energy.
We meet Marcial, who lives in Manhattan with his
grandmother. Marcial’s grandmother is a building super who spends even
more time hauling trash around for the building’s residents now that
they’re at home all the time. “That’s the only way for us to live in
Manhattan,” he says. “We’ve gotta pick up garbage for rich people.”
There’s an urge to keep a diary during a plague — and that’s nothing new.
HBO High schooler Aracelie was diagnosed with mental health
conditions just before the pandemic and now, cooped up and separated
from her friends, she’s struggling to remain afloat.
Camille’s father, who works at the MTA fixing train
doors, watches friends get sick and then gets sick himself; Camille and
her mother hole up in the basement and listen to him cough through the
ceiling.
Shane is the only white participant, which means Covid Diaries NYC
mirrors Covid-19’s disproportionate effect on New Yorkers of colour. His
mother, a preschool teacher, sees her worst fears materialize when
she’s furloughed. And his family, barely squeaking by already, discovers
that the change of scenery that comes with driving west toward his
father’s home state of Wisconsin doesn’t change their collective panic.
And Rosemary watches in anger as people who refuse to
wear masks board the bus that her father drives. Her parents tell her of
their struggles to make a better life as immigrants. By the end of her
segment, the family is watching as Covid-19 creeps in on their friends
and family. Rosemary’s grandmother has tested positive, too.
None of the segments provide snappy conclusions — or,
really, any conclusions at all. We are left hoping these five are okay,
all these months later. I hope Camille’s father and Rosemary’s
grandmother got better, that Shane’s family found a way to get back on
their feet, that Marcial has found an outlet for his energy, that
Aracelie is stable. Covid Diaries NYC leaves us wondering.
But that is what it’s like to read a diary, which
doesn’t, and can’t, wrap up neatly. It starts when the diarist decides
to start, and ends when they finish or, more likely, lose interest.
There’s no clear-cut and easy conclusion to a diary. Which is, when I
think of it, a lot like a pandemic.
In their most basic form, diaries are simply a way to
record what happened and what the diarist thought of it, to make sure
time doesn’t simply slip away. I’ve always been terrible at keeping
diaries on paper, but I know people who’ve done it for years, and I envy
them. They regard it as a kind of therapeutic practice, a way to work
through the day’s emotions, informational intake, and events. To process
existence, really.
In this pandemic, the diaries have proliferated, too. For
some people, they’re a way of simply taking things one day at a time.
Ben Goldberg, a renowned jazz clarinetist, started releasing daily, dated improvisations on March 19, 2020; though they are no longer a daily practice, he is still posting new ones on Bandcamp a year later. Sometimes they’re dedicated to someone who has died or
who’s having a birthday, or bear cryptic names. Goldberg calls the
project “Plague Diary.”
The Portuguese novelist Goncalo Tavares did the same thing in his own medium for a while. The New York Review
of Books published several installments of “Pandemic Journals” from
notable writers, though that endeavor petered out, too; the last one was in May 2020. Early in the pandemic, many other publications followed suit.
People sometimes just keep diaries for themselves.
But there’s always the feeling that they’re also for history. And given
the nature of our contemporary plague — the way it has kept us away
from one another and changed every communication into something awkward
and screen-mediated - the need to make those musings public felt like more than just an
option. It’s also a service to humanity. When it still seemed like the
pandemic would last a manner of weeks or maybe a few months, the notion
that we might forget what it was like to live this way still seemed like
a possibility. (Were we ever so young?)
But to historians and librarians, the goal of a diary is
less to preserve the experience for ourselves than for future
generations. The New York Public Library, for instance, was among the
institutions that started collecting pandemic diaries in audio form,
soliciting entries from anyone who wanted to contribute as a way to
ensure “that people today, along with future generations, can better
understand our world and each other.” It's still collecting them.
At schools, colleges, and universities all over the
country, teachers encouraged or required students to keep diaries. At UC
San Diego, a final project in professor Claire Edington’s history of
public health class required students to keep plague diaries, which will
be archived in the university’s library. Edington noted in an interview with UCSD's newspaper
that the diaries were a way to make clear the social conditions that
often surround pandemics, and how those narratives play into creating a
more just and equitable world moving forward.
The diaries of Samuel Pepys chronicled, in part, the Great Plague of 1665.
Samuel Pepys/Wheatley, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons The Covid diary keepers are just the latest iteration of
plague diarists, of course. During the Great Plague of 1665, nearly
100,000 people died just in London, and Samuel Pepys was there to journal the whole thing. His entries are a mixture of fear and just going about his daily
business, which feels more than a little familiar to us now. They’re so
detailed that they’ve become a basis for historians of 17th-century
England trying to reconstruct the milieu now. And in 1722, Daniel Defoe
published A Journal of the Plague Year, a fictionalized journal
purportedly written by a survivor of that same 1665 plague; it’s so
deeply researched that people still argue about whether it should be
considered something other than fiction.
Such journals give us an insight into the blend of the mundane (I had yogurt for lunch) and the terrifying (the sirens haven’t stopped for days)
that make up the unending, anxious tedium of plague times. They resist
the tendency of narratives that may be woven later, both by artists and
by powerful people seeking to bend the story in their own direction, to
tie the tale in a neat bow. Or to extract a triumphant tale of victory
over death. Or to disregard the daily beats of life in favor of some
other meta-narrative. Diaries remind us that our lives, our long years,
are made up of days and events and emotions — even in a pandemic.
Watching diaries arise during this pandemic year, I found
myself thinking of something that isn’t strictly plague-bound: the
artist On Kawara’s Today series. I’ve seen pieces of it in
various museums around the world, and it’s always striking. Starting on
January 4, 1966, Kawara made a painting every single day, consisting
simply of the date in white painted onto a solid dark background. He
varied the language and grammar of the painting depending on what
country he was in that day. The colors varied at times, too, and each is
hand-lettered. The pieces are mostly quite small, but occasionally he
made them huge (as in July 1969, when the moon landing occurred). If he
couldn’t finish the painting on the date depicted, he’d destroy it.
Ultimately, he made more than 1,000.
Whenever I look at the paintings, I am reminded that
while a little information about them comes through in each painting,
for the most part I don’t know what that day was like for Kawara. The
meaning largely resides in the maker, who might look at it and revisit
the day’s emotions, activities, and epiphanies. Even the plague diarist
can’t record everything that happened and everything they felt on a
given day. The diary is itself an object that evokes something different
for everyone who looks at it.
And Covid Diaries NYC is no different; having lived through the same time the filmmakers are chronicling, I remember where I
was, too. When Aracelie cries on the phone to a friend that “I feel so
many things and nothing at the same time ... it’s like I won the lottery
of bad luck,” well, I know just what that feels like. I remember that
day. (It’s still here, sometimes.) That we may look back at these
moments and count ourselves lucky or even raise an eyebrow at our former
selves doesn’t make that experience less real. The plague diaries we’ve
all been keeping, in one way or another, are a record for history — but
they’re also for our future selves. Not to remember something we can’t
forget, but to recall that life happens, and then, it keeps going.
https://www.vox.com/22321942/covid-diary-plague-journal-hbo