Collages "The postcard series"

Normally I work in a smaller size, but recently I have changed to what we call DINA4 in Germany. So the "post card series" is not in a postcard size but 11.6 to 8.2 inches. They are available at my Etsy shop.

New collage work

A couple of new collages from the last days.









I want to thank all who have supported my work in sending me papers and collage material!

The voices of the other women

What gets us through the night are the voices of the other women. Women who went down the path before us, the path we all have to go.

It’s the amount of all the small things, that lead us to one wisdom in the end: You are enough for yourself.

Til then it is long, winding, stony, painful, often very painful. But mellow also, full of roses.

Inspirations and the voices of those coming before, are guiding us.

 

Whenever we look at the lives of other artists, we discover our own heartblood.

We all are motherless daughters. And so are our mothers. Fallen off the once knowing universes of womanhood, like moon and serpent, Mary’s cloak and milk, herbs and textile, roots, the sea, birth and death. Nobody and nothing has initiated us, not even our mothers. Their heritage often is shallow chatter, meaningless objects, nothing, grains of sand running through our hands.

So we are the uninitiated.

But on the other side there are our real mothers, ancient rocks of the universe, moondust and starsisters, the wise knowledge of the blood, we still feel them in our veins, we still carry them in our bellies.

They have not forgotten how sacred our temples are and how connected our hearts.

And even though we stalk in little too tight shoes through this world of technology, breasts taimed and uterus cut down to small flame with throwing in a pill, they still whisper the old knowlegde to us.

There fox is peeking round the corner, clamping its naughty red paw last moment in the elevator door and comes in with sage wind through the multi-store eyed* building.

In the end we sense sand and adobe and moist earth between our toes as we shed our shoes for a moment, before we straighten our sprayed curls in front of the mirror and a raven feather lies smooth and pretty on our open palms.

We hear the outside rain and an old taste is on our tongue.

In passing we taste the salt of our own tears.

© LaWendula

*in original: meerstöckig, not to translate word game with the German words mehr (multi) and Meer (sea). Mehrstöckig would have been multi-storeyed. To keep a bit from this word game I changed it to multi-store eyed.

This text was orginally written in German and translated by me. I appologize for any mistakes.