ETERNAL SHAPESHIFTERS
2025
Quilted textile presented for the exhibition Gathering Ground, Gathering Grain at Buurtwerkplaats Noorderhof
Linnen, heather, grains
How did the Landscape shape you? The question lingered in my mind for a moment, and I felt a flicker of shame at the answer. Truth be told, it didn’t quite happen that way around. The open, cultivated scenery, of golden crops and regulated flora, was the living proof of my ancestors' endless tending and taming of the soils. I was not shaped by a landscape; rather, I was shown how to form the hillsides, turning forest into fields, water into land, movement into pause.
Old Scandinavian myths tell of shapeshifting through mystical, ambiguous figures, like the goddess Freya, whose magical falcon cloak allowed her to transform. Ecosystems are shapeshifters too, adapting resiliently to any condition. I saw that same magic lying right beneath my feet as I walked across a patchwork of evergreen, ecru, canola yellow, ochre, and blackish grey. How a landscape ‘should’ look was a strangely opinionated matter, steered by the need for profit but also deep-seated attachments to certain aesthetics.
I went to the heathlands, listened to their rough winds and hardy vegetation, sunburned and dry, as though still remembering the long-gone fires that had shaped them. I went to the “re-claimed” lakebeds of fertile soil, whispering of both new and lost habitats. I went to the tidy rows of grains and greens, divided into sharply cut pieces.
What might it mean to learn with this shapeshifting nature instead of seeking to dominate it?
Old Scandinavian myths tell of shapeshifting through mystical, ambiguous figures, like the goddess Freya, whose magical falcon cloak allowed her to transform. Ecosystems are shapeshifters too, adapting resiliently to any condition. I saw that same magic lying right beneath my feet as I walked across a patchwork of evergreen, ecru, canola yellow, ochre, and blackish grey. How a landscape ‘should’ look was a strangely opinionated matter, steered by the need for profit but also deep-seated attachments to certain aesthetics.
I went to the heathlands, listened to their rough winds and hardy vegetation, sunburned and dry, as though still remembering the long-gone fires that had shaped them. I went to the “re-claimed” lakebeds of fertile soil, whispering of both new and lost habitats. I went to the tidy rows of grains and greens, divided into sharply cut pieces.
What might it mean to learn with this shapeshifting nature instead of seeking to dominate it?