stories & MORE
HJÖRNDIS – Time is coming
Written by Tanja.
"Deep in the forest, where the moss muffles her footsteps and light filters through ancient tree canopies, lived Hjörndis, the stag-woman. Her body was torn between two worlds: the grace and alertness of the wild, and the thoughts and longings of humans. When her belly had grown round and heavy, she felt the call to approach a clearing more strongly than ever before. Neither the huts of humans nor the flickering fire could give her what she now needed. It was the full moon in the open sky that called to her.
On the night when the moon hung like a silent eye above the trees, Hjörndis stepped out into the clearing wearing a crown of enchanted, mythical blossoms. The grass bowed before her, and even the wind fell silent. The animals of the forest had gathered in the shadows—beetles, foxes, owls, deer—yet none dared to draw nearer.
Hjörndis sat down and braced herself. Her breathing grew calm, then deep, then like the distant rumble of an approaching storm. With every wave of her pain, the moon seemed to grow brighter and larger, as if it were not merely watching, but participating and remembering.
For that was how it had always been: The beings between the worlds gave birth not only to life, but to balance.
When the child finally arrived, it was silent.
Too silent.
Hjörndis bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the tiny being. But before fear could take root, something strange happened: a light, as gentle as the morning mist, began to stream from the child. It was no loud miracle, no flash of lightning — just a soft, steady glow.
The animals drew nearer. The light grew and spread across the clearing. Where it touched the ground, new plants sprouted. Where it filled the air, it grew warm. Even the oldest trees straightened a little, as though they had found something lost.
The child breathed. Hjörndis now understood: her little girl did not belong to her alone. She was a guardian — not of the forest alone, not of the people alone, but of the boundary between the two.
And so they both remained in the clearing, not as inhabitants, but as a threshold. Wanderers who lost their way sometimes felt her gaze — not threatening, but probing. And those who forgot that they were part of something greater either found their way back there… or lost themselves for good."
EINE BEGEGNUNG IM BILDERWALD
von Prof. Klaus Bushoff, INTERART Galerie, Stuttgart
"Hallo, Ihr Lieben – Was macht ihr denn hier im Suburban-Wald einer naturliebenden Künstlerin? Und wie seht ihr denn jetzt aus?!
Zuletzt war ich euch begegnet auf der Flaniermeile der City, als ihr – etwas herumkutschiert wurdet oder an Rucksäcken baumelnd, als Anmacher eingesetzt wurdet. Mit großen Augen habt ihr das Ansabbern erduldet und das Geknutsche mit Quietschtönen belohnt; eine todschicke Tierfreundin hatte euch aus dem Studio eines Designers abgeholt, aus dem Zoogefängnis freigekauft und den Friseur bezahlt – um aus Freiläufern ein stilisiertes Vorzeigeobjekt in Parkanlagen und Kunstgalerien zu „gestalten“.
Das städtische Kunstgewerbe produziert en massen und à la mode liebenswerte, puppenartige, kapitale Platzhirsche, Nachteulen, Goldhamster, Literratten, links-rechts gedrehte Schnecken, Schoßhündchen, Waschbärinnen, Möpse, diebische Elstern – und auch Insekten für Kinderspielplätze. Hygienische Materialien auf sterilisierten Liegematten für Mitbewohner der *innenstadt. Alles jedoch argwöhnisch betrachtet von Kunst schwitzenden Joggerinnen, die vom AUSFLUG zurück in die City stolperten und schliesslich die Entführung der verkünstelten Tiere in den natürlichen Kunstwald beschlossen.
Hallo – und jetzt seid ihr hier im Dickicht des vorortlichen, renaturalisierten Kulturwaldes im Freiluftatelier einer vitalistigen Künstlerin! Ihr seid unrasiert, scharfgezahnt, geschwollene Riechorgane, langohrig; ich sehe euch laufen, springen, stürzen, Beute machen, Küsschen tauschen... Steiff war einmal! Der Stick des Personalausweises im Ohr verrottet im Unterholz! Wer war es, der da gerade wieder einmal gemordet hat?
Natura naturam necat, krächzt der Kauz und alle stadtflüchtigen, verwilderten Kuscheltiere schmatzen an irgendeiner lebenserhaltenden fleischlichen oder pflanzlichen Nahrung herum, um sich zu stärken für den Weg in den nächsten letztendlichen UR-WALD mit dem verlockenden schwarzen Loch, der ewigen Heimat.
Am Ende. Das Werkstattbild mit dem beutebestückten, abfliegenden, mörderischen Waldkauz vor dem doppeldeutigen Kreuz des Lebens und des Todes; den verschiedenen Arbeitshilfen der Künstlerin; den textlichen Informationen – das Scheußbild der Diskussion über Zivilisation versus Natur – es weist ihn auf die Ganzheitlichkeit der Aussagen zum mechanischen Viatlismus in der Umweltblase des angesprochenen stadtflüchtigen Waldläufers als Tiermensch. Dies meint jedenfalls der (nach Goethe) „totzuschlagende Rezensent“.
MOTHERHOOD
by Joanna Ageborn, Artist, Professional Hair & Makeup Artist, Cambridge, UK
"Nature is in Tanja´s core, she always had a special connection to nature. Animals has this bound to its crowd, and she has always loved to be a part of it , yet also a lonely walker. Through her art she would like to combine her need of solitude with her strong need to be a mother and the power within. The urge to let go and always be there. She embraces the animal kingdom and the freedom of the female deers, as she raised their children with her husband. And the respect they have between them.
Motherhood, nature is the one best thing that surrounds us. Art is all around us."
TRUST ME.
"In the pale morning mist of the moor, where the light slowly found its way, lived two cow moose, Alva and Sira. They often walked shoulder to shoulder, their steps quiet in the wet grass, as if they belonged together like water and wind. When one grazed, the other would lift her head and keep watch. When one grew tired, the other stayed by her side. Trust was their quiet mantra.
Sira loved to tell stories, to experiment. At first they were small, almost delicate untruths – like shimmering threads of mist that no one could hold on to. She spoke of better paths, of safe passages, of dangers that had long since passed. Alva listened intently, quietly marvelling at the ease of her words.
But the threads of mist grew thicker. Sira’s words began to lose their weight, and yet Alva clung to them, because she clung to Sira. Until one day the ground beneath them gave way – not only the ground of the moor.
Alva escaped – but something was left behind: the quiet knowledge that Sira’s voice no longer carried. From then on, Sira stood alone. When she called out, her voice faded into the reeds. When she warned, the others turned away. And when one evening she truly sensed danger and sent her trembling voice through the mist, no one answered any more. The forest remained still. Too still.
Later, only tracks were found, ending abruptly.
Alva stood for a long time at the edge of the moor, her gaze fixed upon the water, which gave nothing at all back. And somewhere in the mist lay a voice no one could hear any longer."
