Between Summer Light and Moving Boxes
By August, I usually find myself thinking again that this summer is coming to an end. The evenings are getting shorter, already signaling the arrival of the next season.
This year, I’m noticing this change more clearly than ever. That’s because I’m facing some big 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. Have you heard of 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. We have plans, of course, but at the same time, there are still many things that remain open-ended and 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 okay.
Between Cups, Plates, and Existential Questions
I’m not quite sure yet, though, how I’m going to get my studio—along with all its supplies—packed up over the next few weeks in a way that keeps everything as undamaged as possible and reasonably organized. I can still somewhat picture how I’ll handle moving the mugs, plates, and books. But when it comes to my artwork, frames, glass, tools, and all the little treasures I’ve collected over the years, things get a lot more challenging.
I can already picture myself wrapping myself in newspaper, cup by cup. That will probably be the more relaxing part of the whole thing.
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 a mix of emotions: 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 Pupation and Other Intermediate Stages
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 use found objects to create new connections; something that was overlooked gives rise to something that wasn’t there before. Nothing remains exactly what it once was.
So what could be a better fit for this August than the metamorphosis of a butterfly?
It is mysterious, bizarre, ever-changing, and surprising. It takes time, is labor-intensive, and, in the end, overwhelmingly beautiful. A being, so to speak, dissolves 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 of work for me.
Of course, it’s made of dead butterflies. These delicate creatures continue to enchant us with their timeless beauty long after they’ve passed away.
The butterflies I used for this collage? They come from a pretty bizarre collection that was given to me a long time ago in Hamburg.
When I opened the tattered, slightly moth-eaten paper bag, it turned out to be a sort of surprise bag: over the course of several years, dead butterflies had been collected in it from a local butterfly house.
In the bag, I found them jumbled together, piled on top of each other, and in very varying states of preservation.
To me, this loose collection is still a source of inspiration to this day. By now, the dust has settled on the bag; 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 take on a new presence once again in this work.
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 what about my own transformation?
That still seems a bit uncertain to me.
First, I have to pack. It’ll probably be more like going through the chrysalis stage. I’ll retreat with my belongings and wrap them in newspaper, cup by cup, book by book, and box by box. The hardworking caterpillars could certainly serve as a role model for me: They go about their business—eating, molting, and growing—and probably don’t complain about the lack of labels on the boxes.
What I mean is: At least a butterfly doesn’t have to worry about how to get a studio full of frames and museum-quality glass through a move.
However, 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. There are some things that only become clear once you start 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 some new works
As for when the next piece will be written, that’s still written in the stars—or buried 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 during these turbulent times
Magdalena Hohlweg
Monthly notes throughout the year:
November – Art is dead! Long live art!
April – Find out what you really want
Juno – The Art of Imperfection
July – The Center of the World
The Monthly Notes are my long-term project that evolves as the year goes on.
They are now also available as podcast on Youtube and can also be found on Spotify under the title ZEIT für KUNST .
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