Between Summer Light and Moving Boxes
In August, I usually start thinking again about how this summer is coming to an end. The evenings are getting shorter, already heralding the next season.
This year, I’m noticing this transition particularly clearly. That’s because I’m facing major changes: I’ll be moving in October.
My husband and I will be leaving Bad Pyrmont with all our belongings. Our new home will be Schwelm.
Schwelm, near Wuppertal. Do you know Schwelm?
I’ve actually been there three times by now, mainly to view the apartment. So I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I know Schwelm. Only this much is certain: It’s going to be a leap into the unknown—filled with excitement, anticipation, and a number of moving boxes that’s still unclear.
Over the past eight years, Bad Pyrmont has become our home. I’ve settled in here, met people, made friends, and grown to love the Weserbergland region with its forests, hills, and sweeping views. I’ll miss a lot of it.
As I prepare to say goodbye, I find comfort in remembering past moves. My life has taken me from Hamm to Essen and Dorsten, then to Hamburg, and finally, eight years ago, to Bad Pyrmont. Each of these places was new to me at one point. And each time, what was once unfamiliar gradually became familiar.
There are people who are happy to spend their entire lives in their region, their city, or even their village. I am one of those people who keep moving on. Looking back, all these moves were always more than just a change of address: With each new place, people, experiences, and developments came into my life that would never have happened without taking that step.
For us, the upcoming move means one thing above all else: After decades, we’ll be living near our children and our family again. That’s what I’m looking forward to the most.
The rest will fall into place.
So far, with every move we’ve made, it’s been a special challenge not knowing in advance what our new life will look like. There are plans, of course, but at the same time, a lot remains open—things that haven’t been decided yet. I don’t see this as just uncertainty. There’s also a special kind of freedom in it—and sometimes a little bit of creative chaos.
That’s why, for me, August this year is all about change. I’ve chosen the color blue for this time of year. Blue has a sense of movement, expansiveness, and emotion. It reminds me of water, which finds its way by flowing and constantly adapting to its surroundings. Blue for change and renewal.
A lot of things will change.
Everything will be fine.
Between cups, plates, and existential questions
However, I’m not quite sure yet how I’ll manage to pack up my studio—along with all its supplies—in the coming weeks without causing too much damage and in a reasonably organized way. When it comes to cups, plates, and books, I can still picture the move to some extent. But with my artwork, frames, glass, tools, and all the little found objects that have accumulated over the years, things are going to get significantly more challenging.
I can already picture myself wrapping each cup individually in newspaper. That will probably be the more relaxing part of the whole endeavor.
My artwork is a different story. For that, I need a little more than crumpled newspaper and moving boxes.
Maybe the shelves I have now won’t fit in the new studio. Maybe I’ll need different ones. That, too, is part of moving: things that I took for granted for years are suddenly called into question again.
And so, saying goodbye is probably always associated with several emotions at once: excitement and hard work, worries and melancholy, anticipation and curiosity. I try to focus my attention above all on the anticipation. After all, there’s a good reason for taking this step—and, if necessary, plenty of packing tape.
On Metamorphosis and Other Transitional States
Change has long been a recurring theme in my artistic work. Witnessing a butterfly’s metamorphosis up close is a fascinating wonder of nature. I had the opportunity to observe this amazing transformation myself—and have shared my experiences in the blog post “Caterpillar and Butterfly” .
I create new connections from found objects; something overlooked gives rise to something that wasn’t there before. Nothing remains exactly as it once was.
What, then, could be more fitting for this August than the metamorphosis of a butterfly?
It is mysterious, bizarre, ever-changing, and surprising. It takes time, is labor-intensive, and is ultimately overwhelmingly beautiful. A creature dissolves, so to speak, only to reappear in a completely different form.
A Special Work in Special Times
In this context, my collage “Forever and Ever” is a very special piece for me.
Of course, it’s made of dead butterflies. These delicate creatures continue to enchant us far beyond their passing with their timeless beauty.
The butterflies I used for this collage? They come from a rather bizarre collection that was given to me a long time ago in Hamburg.
When I opened the tattered, slightly moth-eaten paper bag, it actually turned out to be a sort of surprise bag: over several years, dead butterflies from a local butterfly house had been collected inside it.
In the bag, I found them jumbled together, piled on top of one another, and in widely varying conditions.
To me, this loose collection remains a source of inspiration to this day. By now, the dust in the bag is a thing of the past; the butterflies have been sorted and are safely stored—ready for their next transformations.
I still remember the words of the butterfly house’s director at the time, when she handed me the bag: “I’m sure you’ll make something beautiful out of it.”
Her words gave me something back then that has stayed with me over the years: the responsibility to create something from these fragile remnants that does justice to their beauty.
Many years have passed since then. The butterflies—and I—have waited for their time to come. Now I believe I have given them a fitting setting—a place where their beauty can be revealed once more, without turning them into trophies of a collector’s passion.
Their wings speak not of possession, but of transience. They preserve something of the life that preceded them and, in this work, take on a new presence once again.
I kept the butterflies for years before finally creating this piece. It’s a little different from my other works, and that’s exactly why it’s so meaningful to me.
This work is not about identifying individual species. The only thing that is certain is that these butterflies came from different regions of the world and have reached the natural end of their lives. Some of the bodies were still well-preserved, while of others, only the delicate wings remained.
Some reveal their undersides, while others display their iridescent surfaces. The colors and patterns remain virtually unchanged and are of astonishing intensity. As long as the delicate wings are not exposed to wind and weather—but are instead kept behind protective glass, as they are here—this beauty is preserved.
The work is presented in an elaborately crafted custom frame that goes far beyond the appearance of a traditional butterfly display case. Dark wood accented with orange provides a striking backdrop for the delicate fragments. Low-reflection glass allows for a clear, virtually unobstructed view and lends the colors and textures an extraordinary brilliance and luminosity.
Life and death are closely intertwined in this work.
And my own transformation?
That still seems a bit uncertain to me.
First, I have to pack. That will probably be more like going through a chrysalis stage. I’ll retreat with my belongings and wrap them in newspaper, cup by cup, book by book, and box by box. The industrious caterpillars could certainly serve as a model for me here: They go about their business—eating, molting, and growing—and presumably don’t complain about the lack of labels on the boxes.
Although I suppose: at least a butterfly doesn’t have to worry about how to get a studio full of frames and museum-grade glass through a move.
But since the moving truck will already be parked outside in October, I can’t afford to spend too much time on planning and second-guessing. Some things only become clear once you’re actually doing them.
My collage “Forever and Ever” tells this story as well. The butterflies have long since completed their metamorphosis. What remains are their wings, their colors, their astonishing beauty—and the story of a life that has already transformed into something else. In my work, they take on a new context and, in a sense, a second life.
In my view, this is one of the most beautiful ways to deal with change: not trying to hold on to everything, but paying close attention to what can remain, what changes, and what new things can emerge from it.
So the work “Forever and Ever” accompanies me this August in a way all its own. It connects life and death, memory and new beginnings, transience and beauty. And it reminds me that transformation doesn’t always come in a spectacular way. Sometimes it begins quite unobtrusively—with a packed box, a new key, or a piece of furniture that’s moved to a new spot.
In the coming weeks, I will therefore not only be packing my moving boxes, but also taking a closer look at my work in the process. Many of my collages speak, in their own unique way, of change, transience, and the surprising life of objects. Found objects change their context, seemingly insignificant things take on a new role, and from what remains, something unexpectedly new emerges.
This is my very own form of metamorphosis: I collect, organize, and connect things, and let myself be surprised by what emerges.
And while summer is slowly changing its colors outside, a new chapter is already beginning for me. The moving truck will arrive, the studio will change, and soon I’ll be opening another box in Schwelm. I don’t yet know what will be inside.
But there’s one thing I already know:
It’s time for new works
As for when the next piece will be written, that remains to be seen—or perhaps it’s hidden among moving boxes, packing tape, and lots of newspaper. I’ll have to go through a period of transformation first. Until then, I wish everyone wonderful summer evenings without sweltering temperatures.
With best wishes for these turbulent times
Magdalena Hohlweg
Leave a Reply