#judith johnson

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Rupe Ethnographic Museum

Judith Johnson

Through a square hole we see dizzying chasms where Ragusa’s hunger was kept at bay and, in the rooms above, the back story:

all the tools these people forged to bring out of the earth what it held in store for them - ploughs, saws, scythes; mid-wived through difficult labour, raised and husbanded, preserved in fish-traps, oil jars; they could only be amazed at what we waste, our bones, organs, cupboards groaning with our double share.

We buy and discard cheap finery, disconnected from its making, but here, laid out in dazzling display, lie thousand-stitched spirals on linen, twill, felt; a hundred evenings’ work by those first to rise, last to lie down, after field-work, tilling, sowing, Sabbath bringing the bright colours into the sunlight, each valley’s head-dress marking its own.

We travel through the world, craving others’ ritual, song, dance, belonging.

Here’s a beehive in a hollowed tree-trunk, horse-skull on stone slab for lid, protection against spells: sweetness in its measured place.

The long oak table on the top floor is laid out for those departed, or not yet arrived.

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Sad sad nuns