mothers

path of poppies and nettles. mothers of my path: Mokosz, Marzanna, foremothers.

[slavicafire]

Winter Queen’s Flowers. Vintage Polish postcard with artwork by Zofia Plewińska Smidowiczowa, 1934.

[slavicafire]

sickle: a slavic folk playlist of 13 songs for the winter greeting, in honour of death mother.

[classicalcanvas]

First Steps (1890) by Vincent van Gogh

[margindoodles2407]

YOU DO NOT GET TO LEAVE THIS IN THE TAGS.

[seeking-elsewhither]

HERE IT IS!!!

[the-bibrarian]

The reason it is not as well known as other paintings by Van Gogh is probably because it’s actually a « copy » of a drawing by Jean-François Millet, an artist he admired greatly.

I put copy in quotation marks because the two artworks are very different. Van Gogh made 21 copies after Millet’s works from the asylum in Saint-Remy, and he called them « translations ».

The original title of the painting posted by op is actually First steps, after Millet.

Here’s the drawing that inspired him :

First steps, c. 1859-66, Jean-François Millet

[miedkha]

Emil Melmoth, Our Lady of the Blind Fate

[yama-bato]

©Aassmaa Akhannouch

[ + ]

[dreamsinthyme]

Oleg Shuplyak, Ukrainian artist Winter

[ptr-sqloint]

redraw of last year's lady of sorrows :)

the original:

[brokengloss]

our lady of sorrows has seven swords peircing her heart signifying her seven earthy and heavenly sorrows

[michaelnordeman]

Frosty garden. Värmland, Sweden (October 28, 2019).

[xanaxfarts]

blood agar + chocolate agar in beautiful bacteria: encounters in the microuniverse (2024)

[comikbook]

Momento Mori (Working Title), 2024, digital painting by myself, Liz Pence

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[home-and-having-tea]

You ever think about how unified humanity is by just everyday experiences? Tudor peasants had hangnails, nobles in the Qin dynasty had favorite foods, workers in the 1700s liked seeing flowers growing in pavement cracks, a cook in medieval Iran teared up cutting onions, a mom in 1300 told her son not to get grass stains on his clothes, some girl in the past loved staying up late to see the sun rise.

[quecksilvereyes]

there are scriptures all over the world painstakingly crafted hundreds of years ago with paw prints and spelling mistakes or drawings covering up mistakes. a bunch of teenage girls 2000 years ago gathered to walk around their hometown, getting fast food and laughing with their friends. two friends shared blankets before people lived in houses. a mother ran a fine comb through her child’s hair and told it to stop squirming sometime in the 1000s. there are covered up sewing mistakes in couture dresses from the 1800s, some poor roman burnt their food so well past recognition that they just buried the entire pot. there are broken dishes hidden in gardens of people no one even remembers anymore

[theropoda]

children eleven thousand years ago enjoyed jumping around in puddles made from the footprints of a giant sloth. children loved muddy puddles so long ago there were still megafauna alive

[archaeologs]

Fresco from Cult Center at Mycenae, LH IIIB. Nauplia, Archaeological Museum. Photo: Gianni Dagli Orti/The Art Archive at Art Resource, NY.

[onetwofeb]

Emily Dickinson

[astranemus]

Your body is an ancestor. Your body is an altar to your ancestors. Every one of your cells holds an ancient and anarchic love story. Around 2.7 billion years ago free-living prokaryotes melted into one another to form the mitochondria and organelles of the cells that build our bodies today. All you need to do to honor your ancestors is to roll up like a pill bug, into the innate shape of safety: the fetal position. The curl of your body, then, is an altar not just to the womb that grew you, but to the retroviruses that, 200 million years ago taught mammals how to develop the protein syncytin that creates the synctrophoblast layer of the placenta. Breathe in, slowly, knowing that your breath loops you into the biome of your ecosystem. Every seven to ten years your cells will have turned over, rearticulated by your inhales and exhales, your appetites and proclivity for certain flavors. If you live in a valley, chances are the ancient glacial moraine, the fossils crushed underfoot, the spores from grandmotherly honey fungi, have all entered into and rebuilt the very molecular make up of your bones, your lungs, and even your eyes. Even your lungfuls of exhaust churn you into an ancestor altar for Mesozoic ferns pressurized into the fossil fuels. You are threaded through with fossils. Your microbiome is an ode to bacterial legacies you would not be able to trace with birth certificates and blood lineages. You are the ongoing-ness of the dead. The alembic where they are given breath again. Every decision, every idea, every poem you breathe and live is a resurrection of elements that date back to the birth of this universe itself. Today I realize that due to the miracle of metabolic recycling, it is even possible that my body, somehow, holds the cells of my great-great grandmother. Or your great-great grandmother. Or that I am built from carbon that once intimately orchestrated the flight of a hummingbird or a pterodactyl. Your body is an ecosystem of ancestors. An outcome born not of a single human thread, but a web of relations that ripples outwards into the intimate ocean of deep time.

Your Body is an Ancestor, Sophie Strand

[endocathexis]

Death and the Maiden by Ana Sanchez

[somardani01]

By printhausco