A heart with wings in the sand
I really hadn’t expected to see a belly button piercing that day as I strolled through the Boberg Dunes in Hamburg, with no set destination and in no hurry—a state I rarely manage to achieve in real life, but one that comes easily and naturally when I’m hiking. I stop when something catches my eye, take a few steps back because I think I’ve seen something out of the corner of my eye, and as a result, I usually end up moving much more slowly than I’d planned. My attention almost automatically wanders to the ground, where there’s always plenty to discover.
Suddenly, something pink glinted among the grains of sand. At first I thought it was a piece of plastic—unfortunately, there’s plenty of that lying around everywhere—but this sparkle was particularly intense. In my hand I finally held a small heart made of pink cubic zirconia, held in place by two little silver wings that had already turned dark. The sun, wind, and sand had clearly left their mark, but the pink still glowed with countless tiny reflections of light in the sun.
It’s amazing what people lose—and what oddities I end up taking home in return. The less I try, the more often these tiny little finds suddenly appear right at my feet. While I think I’m developing my art, it has long since been shaping my view of the world as well.
Whenever I come across finds like these, I often wonder when a personal treasure actually stops being a treasure. When does an object stop being missed by anyone and simply become part of the landscape? I’ll never know, because found objects never reveal their full story. They tell just enough to spark my imagination, leaving me to piece the rest together. For me, that’s exactly where their true magic lies.
The little heart came home with me and ended up on my desk, right in the middle of seed pods, dried-up plant remains, bizarre little pieces of wood, and all the other things that had at some point fallen out of their original context. I picked it up, set it aside, and gazed at the pink shimmer between the dark silver wings—and at some point, it dawned on me what I’d actually found: a belly button piercing. And with it, quite unexpectedly, came the title of my new work.
The center of the world.
That thought has been on my mind throughout July.
Midsummer
July also feels like the middle of a long breath. Behind me lie the first six months of the year, with all their hopes, detours, and little surprises. Ahead of me lie another six months, about which I don’t yet know much, and in between, this summer stretches out, as if it wanted to be everything at once and in its entirety for just a brief moment. During these weeks, I’d prefer neither to look back nor to think ahead, but simply to stay right where I am. Let’s see how that goes.
The sun bathes meadows, forests, and fields in the warm yellow I’ve chosen for this month. A few days ago, I was out riding my bike when the golden hour began. For just a few moments, the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the wild meadow as if someone had poured gold over it. A brief, almost surreal moment that vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. I’m glad I was able to pull my phone out of my pocket just in time to capture this snapshot.
This light makes even ordinary things shine. I probably would never have spotted that little pink heart without this sunlight.
However, yellow isn’t just about cozy warmth. It’s also the color of lightning: the same force that bathes summer evenings in gold may, moments later, unleash itself in a thunderstorm. One moment everything seems perfectly calm, and the next, a wall of dark clouds is already pushing in front of the sun.
In July, summer heat and rain, new beginnings and goodbyes are often so close together that you can barely make it to dry ground in time. I find this month particularly rich precisely because it doesn’t allow for clear-cut decisions. On the contrary: the rain after a heat wave is a real blessing—July invites me to enjoy both.
Abundance or Zero Point?
In July, summer heat and rain, new beginnings and goodbyes are often so close together that you can barely make it to dry ground in time. I find this month particularly rich precisely because it doesn’t allow for clear-cut decisions. On the contrary: the rain after a heat wave is a real blessing—July invites me to enjoy both.
This certainly isn’t limited to summer: the busier life gets, the closer everything feels. Memories surface—some pleasant, some not so pleasant—while at the same time, new things begin. Some pleasant, some not so pleasant. Some opportunities open up at the very moment when others disappear for good.
Everything seems to be reaching its peak all at once.
In July, I don’t even need to try to resolve these contradictions. I’ll just have to put up with them—and that, for me, is the true serenity I’d like to continue cultivating.
At the same time, my thoughts continue to revolve around the center of the world.
A belly button tells the story of our central origin, of a connection that was severed long ago yet remains visible. Presumably, we all search at some point for such a center—a place where everything can be explained and where everything feels good and right.
But what exactly is this much-talked-about center we’re all searching for? Is the navel of the world the place of greatest abundance, or is it exactly the opposite—a zero point? The longer I think about it, the more similar both possibilities seem to me. A zero point is, at first, absolute nothingness. But at the same time, it already contains every conceivable direction within itself—from the zero point, a circle can unfold, a wave, a thought, an entire life. Abundance may well begin at the very moment when everything seems to have vanished, long before anything new becomes visible and tangible.
July feels very much the same to me. The vegetation displays its full spectrum of colors. A wide variety of flowers compete to fill the air with their scents—and in doing so, they already herald the coming change: The meadows are a lush green, while the first blades of grass have long since begun to dry out. Everything grows and fades away in these weeks almost in the same breath, and for me, those two things are inextricably linked.
Feather Symbol – The Center of the World
And so, once again, a small found object gave rise to a new work titled “Navel of the World” from the “Feather Signs” series. As is so often the case, it is not a single material that tells the whole story, but rather their interplay: grasses form the landscape, a rose thorn became a thornbird, the yellow parakeet feather brushes the edge of the picture like a ray of sunlight, and an alder cone gave rise to a real wren. Joining them are poppy capsules, fluttering elm seeds, birch seed leaves, pea tendrils, wrapping paper, a ceramic cigarette filter, a small tag marked “No. 49,” and other plant remnants that found their way to me along the way. And, more on the sidelines, the little winged heart—a fragment of a lost belly-button piercing. Although it lends its name to this work, it is no more or less important to this scene than all the other tiniest of details.
Whether it’s a thorn left over from the last time I pruned a rose or a fragment of someone else’s belly button jewelry—to me, these are the materials that speak of eternity and meaning without ever having been carved in stone. My tools are the little notes on the margins of everyday life that we usually overlook—and that is precisely why I collect them with such enthusiasm.
Sometimes a single discovery is really all it takes to set a thought in motion. Everything else gradually gathers around it, as if it had always belonged there. Presumably, the center of the world lies precisely wherever something is just beginning to take on meaning—no matter for whom or what.
I’m very curious to hear what stories you’ll discover in this scene, and I look forward to your accounts.
Summer Greetings from the Studio
Magdalena Hohlweg
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